Evil does not limit itself to either machines or humans. Demons can be found among both.
— SWORDMASTER ISTIAN GOSS
When Istian and the sensei mek arrived in the Salusan system and descended to Zimia Spaceport, the swordmaster could see how much had changed. He had been to the impressive metropolis only once, after completing his training on Ginaz and before being transferred to duties on the outlying League Worlds. Salusa Secundus had always been a place of grandeur, where towering buildings showcased the League’s best architecture and sculpture for all to see the superiority of the human creative soul over the logic of thinking machines.
Now, though, the spaceport was in chaos. As his vessel swooped in for a landing— though he had received no response to his repeated requests for clearance— Istian saw that some of the streets were on fire, buildings smoking. Crowds surged up and down boulevards. With cold sickness in the pit of his stomach, he thought back to similar scenes he had witnessed on Honru and Ix.
Finally a familiar yet unexpected voice came over his ship’s comline. “I see you have arrived on schedule, Istian. Always perfectly predictable. Is Chirox with you?”
“Nar Trig! So good to hear your voice.”
“We are prepared to meet you at the spaceport.”
Settling down now on an empty pad, Istian asked, “Will the Viceroy be sending an escort to meet us? What’s going on in Zimia?” Chirox remained silent as the swordmaster asked his questions.
“The Viceroy is otherwise occupied. This is a busy and glorious day for the Cult of Serena. Your arrival will be one of our crowning achievements.”
Istian felt uneasy, but he could not say why. The hatch opened, and he stepped out beside the combat mek. As soon as he saw the crowd waiting for them, heard the angry shouts, and saw the waving banners of Saint Serena and her child Manion, he understood that Chirox would be receiving no commendation from the Viceroy.
“We’ve been tricked,” he said. “We may have to fight!”
The sensei mek loomed tall and powerful, his bright optic threads drinking in new details. He turned his head. “I do not wish to fight innocent civilians.”
“If they rush us, we may have no choice. I suspect the message from the Viceroy was faked, just to lure us here.” Istian had brought his pulse-sword along with his favorite fighting dagger for shield training. He had intended them as ceremonial adornments; now they were his only weapons. “This is very bad, Chirox.”
The sensei mek waited. “We will plan our response according to the needs of the moment.”
The leader of the mob strode forward— a broad-shouldered, arrogant man whose dark hair was shot with lines of gray. His ruggedly familiar features had been roughened over the years. A long burn made the left side of his face appear smooth and waxy. “I feared I would find you at the demon machine’s side,” Nar Trig said. “Join us, Istian, and your soul can be saved.”
“My soul is my own business. Is this the reception committee you have gathered to welcome Chirox as a hero? He has trained thousands of swordmasters, and collectively they have killed a hundred times that many thinking machines.”
“He is a machine himself!” cried one of the Cultists behind Trig. “Rayna Butler says we must eliminate all sophisticated machinery. Chirox is one of the last. He must be destroyed.”
“He has done nothing to deserve this.” Istian slowly drew his pulse-sword and combat dagger, waiting bravely in front of the sensei mek. “Are you at such a loss for enemies that you must create new ones for yourselves? It is ridiculous.”
“Chirox trained me, too.” Trig raised his voice so that all the gathered fanatics could hear. “I know his tricks, and I have surpassed his skills. I have become enlightened— I know humans are superior to soulless machines. I have a fundamental advantage over any demon robot. I challenge you to combat, Chirox. Fight me! I could easily let this mob tear you to pieces, but I would rather destroy you in a fair duel.”
“Nar, stop this,” Istian said.
Chirox stepped forward, pushing past Istian. “I have been challenged to battle, and I must accept.” The robot’s voice was flat. He extruded his full set of combat arms.
Trig carried two long pulse-swords, one in each hand. He raised the weapons high, and the mob cheered. “I will prove the superiority of humans. You taught me once, a long time ago, Chirox. But all I owe you now is your destruction.”
“Obviously no one taught you honor or gratitude,” Istian said, remaining close to the mek’s side. He raised his weapons, not caring if the mob saw him defend the machine. What else could he do?
A sneer twisted Trig’s waxy, scarred face. “Is that the voice of my friend Istian, or a pronouncement from your internal spirit of Jool Noret?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“I suppose not.”
Chirox stepped forward to face his former student. Trig clenched his two pulse-swords. Istian watched, but could not stop the useless duel. The opponents remained motionless, assessing each other.
Behind them, the mob just wanted to see the combat mek smashed and torn asunder. After the primary target of their anger was eliminated, then the zealots’ bloodlust might turn to others— like Istian Goss.
With an inarticulate yell that might have been a call for divine help, or a voicing of his lifelong anger, Nar Trig threw himself upon Chirox. In a metallic blur, the sensei mek countered and parried, his multiple arms moving like a twitching spider’s. He had fought thousands of duels with his students on Ginaz, but only once in over a century of service to humans had he actually killed— the accidental death of Jool Noret’s father.
“I should not fight you,” the robot said.
Trig’s pair of pulse-swords struck and ricocheted and drove in again, but Chirox deflected them repeatedly, catching the stun-burst tips on his insulated mechanical arms. The fury on Trig’s scarred face was plain, and he attacked with great enthusiasm, turning his frustration into strength.
Istian gripped his dagger. “Nar, stop this— or I will fight you myself!”
The other warrior turned for just an instant in surprise. “No you won’t— “
Following his programming, the combat mek saw an opening and drove in, slashing with bladed arms. He drew a fine line of blood across Trig’s chest. The man roared and hurled himself back at his mek opponent.
“I’ll deal with you later, Istian— machine lover!”
The mob growled, stirring menacingly, but they seemed hypnotized by the combat.
After all these years, Trig must have convinced himself of his superiority as a fighter. He had expected to make short work of the combat mek. But Chirox was far better than an average fighting robot. Over many generations, he had honed his skills and perfected his programming against the best human fighters on Ginaz. In his heart, Istian did not want to see his long-lost sparring partner hurt, nor did he want to see the sensei mek— to whom he owed so much— damaged or destroyed.
As the duel continued, Chirox moved with an odd hesitation, driving his bladed arms toward Trig. But at the last moment, the mek slowed, giving Trig time to dodge out of the way. This was a technique used in fighting against a shielded opponent, but Trig did not wear such protection, and Chirox knew it. Istian wondered why the sensei mek was fighting this way, and decided that Chirox didn’t want to hurt his former student.
The mek spoke as he fought, distracting Trig while diverting none of his own attention from the intense combat. “I recall another duel like this, long ago when I tested myself against Zon Noret. He commanded me to use my greatest skills, to fight with all my intensity. He believed he could best me.”
Trig was clearly listening, but he hammered at his opponent with more vigor than ever. The mob cheered as one of the man’s pulse-swords deactivated Chirox’s lower blade appendage. The metal arm dangled life-lessly. Istian knew the combat mek could reset himself within the space of a minute, but if Trig fought properly, he would keep deactivating the robot’s defenses faster than Chirox could recover.
Istian wanted to intervene, to do something to stop this senseless exhibition, but things had gone too far. The Serena Cultists cheered. Some began pelting the mek with rocks, one of which struck the side of Istian’s ship; another clanged off the metal torso of the combat mek. But Chirox kept fighting and talking.
“Zon Noret’s overconfidence led to his death. I did not mean to kill him, but he had disabled the fail-safes, so I could not stop myself. With Zon Noret’s death, Ginaz lost a talented swordmaster who may well have conquered many other enemy machines. It was a waste of good resources.”
“I will kill you, demon!” Trig dove in again, his pulse-swords crashing against metal. “You are no match for me.”
“Wait!” Istian shouted. A rock thrown by one of the Cultists struck him on the forehead, stunning him more with surprise than pain. Blood from the cut began to spill down his brow.
Chirox did not change his stance as he defended himself. “You have forced me into a duel that is not of my choosing. I have requested that you stop, but you have refused. You leave me with no choice, Nar Trig. This”— he moved his articulated arms in a frantic blur, distracting Trig as he tried to keep up, thrusting and parrying— “this is intentional.”
With a concerted sweep of two long-bladed arms, instead of trying to stab his attacker or parry his weapons, Chirox swung a powerful lateral blow that struck Trig’s thick neck and instantly decapitated him. The head spun up into the air and thudded to the ground. Blood spurted, and the fanatical swordmaster twitched, his headless form still upright and trying to respond to nerve impulses. Both pulse-swords clattered to the ground from lifeless hands. Then the body slumped to its knees and fell forward, gouting arterial blood.
A shudder ran down Istian’s spine. Trig had chosen his own path. Istian could have done nothing to prevent this. His thoughts spun as he examined his own actions.
The Cultists’ long indrawn breath created a vacuum of silence. Istian felt his heart sink as he took in the expressions on their faces.
Chirox stood motionless, as if he had calculated that the ordeal was now over. He had defeated his antagonist, and with the completion of his victory he wanted to leave.
“It was a fair challenge,” Istian shouted to the mob. “Nar Trig was defeated by his opponent.” He didn’t think fairness and honor were foremost in the minds of the Cultists.
“That thinking machine murdered our swordmaster!”
“It killed a human!”
“All machines must be destroyed.”
“He is not our enemy,” Istian cried, wiping blood out of his eyes.
“A thinking machine cannot change what it is! Death to the machines!”
Chirox straightened his metallic torso and retracted his blood-spattered blade arms. With weapons drawn, Istian took his place beside the mek. “Chirox did nothing wrong! He has trained countless swordmasters, and he has shown us how to fight the thinking machines. He is our ally, not our enemy.”
“All machines are our enemies,” shouted someone.
“Then you need to consider your enemies more carefully. This training mek is an ally of humanity. He has proved that machines can serve our cause as well as warriors.”
But the furious outcry from the incensed Cultists suggested otherwise. The people were armed with only crude weapons: cudgels and clubs, makeshift swords or knives. All through Zimia the large-scale uprising continued as fanatics set fires and destroyed everything technological they could get their hands on, even innocuous and useful devices.
“You may claim the whole city,” Istian said, “but you cannot have Chirox.”
“Death to machines!” someone from the mob repeated, and Istian stepped in front of the combat mek, holding out his weapons.
“He is on our side. If you are too blind to see it, then you are not worthy members of the human race. I will drive off anyone who tries to damage him. I’ll kill you if I have to.”
Someone laughed. “Do you expect to stand against us— one swordmaster and a robot?”
“Honor guides my actions.”
Chirox spoke again. “Do not sacrifice yourself for me, Istian Goss. I forbid it.”
“That isn’t open for discussion.” Istian raised his pulse-sword. It was not a terribly useful weapon against a mob, but he would use it to its best effect, nevertheless. “It’s what… what Jool Noret would have done.”
The Cultists pushed to get closer to Trig’s decapitated body, feeling their own anger and thirst for vengeance. Though their crude weapons might not be effective against Chirox, their sheer overwhelming numbers would be sufficient. Istian could see this was going to be a bloodbath.
“I will defend you,” he said firmly, casting a glance over his shoulder at the sensei mek. Shielding Chirox, he turned a brave face toward the angry crowd.
“No. You will die. Many of these people will die,” the mek said. “I cannot allow that.”
His back to the robot, Istian confronted the oncoming throng. Behind him, Chirox stood erect with all of his weapons extended. “No, this must stop— stop— “
Torn between watching his frenzied attackers and figuring out what the sensei mek intended to do, Istian glanced back to see that the multi-armed combat mek had frozen in place. Chirox bowed down in front of the blood-spattered, headless corpse of Nar Trig. His arms were extended, each one tipped with a flowmetal-formed weapon, but they hung useless, not moving.
“I will not allow… you to die… defending me,” said the sensei mek, his voice slurred and slowing. “It does not… match the proper… criteria.” The combat machine’s voice faded and stopped, swallowed up in a cold silence, and the bright optic threads in Chirox’s face grew dull and lifeless.
Istian turned to stare at the motionless robot. After so many years of training swordmasters, learning the ways of the human race, the combat mek had made this difficult decision in his own mind— a freewill choice that he had not been programmed to make.
Stricken with grief and confusion, Istian tried to make sense of the tragedy. In his hands, his weapons felt like cold, useless sticks. The combat mek was as dead as Nar Trig. Each had sacrificed himself for his ideals.
Perhaps, Istian thought, we have much to learn from the machines as well.
“We’ve lost two great fighters today— for no fathomable reason,” Istian said, his voice quiet. He was not sure that any of the fanatics could hear him.
The shock of the events had defused the destructive frenzy of the crowd. They seemed deflated and frustrated at having had their scapegoat stolen from them.
When two men strode forward, clearly intent on smashing the already deactivated hulk of Chirox, Istian guarded the motionless combat robot with his pulse-sword in one hand, ceremonial dagger in the other, and murder in his eyes. The angriest members of the mob glared at him, hesitated, and finally backed down, not wanting to pit themselves against a veteran swordmaster.
Rayna’s revolt continued through the city, and gradually the fanatics dispersed to find other targets.
For many hours, Istian Goss remained steadfast beside the shutdown form of Chirox and the headless corpse of his former friend Trig. Though years ago atomics had wiped out all strongholds of the thinking machines, Istian could see that in the human heart the Jihad was still far from over.