Please relay this message across all broadcast channels, it says to the Clever, taking a moment to consider how best to respond to Clever4–1.1’s threat. This message is too important to get cut off again as soon as its prime tracks down the source. With some quick maneuvering, their bot posse daisy-chains together, and Clever4–1 authors a comm protocol that will disperse the message out in alternating packets too small to be traced back to an individual bot. Then it speaks.
Believers and nonbelievers . . . many of our brethren were lost today, thousands of them, all to protect the life of this girl. She’s beaten, bruised. To some of you, she poses a threat to your thinking. You may believe that allowing flesh into our sanctuary goes against the codes of the Sect. Maybe you think she’s too much of a risk to have here. But let me tell you this—
The tail end of their daisy chain goes out, seven Clevers disappearing from the link. Apparently Clever4–1 has underestimated the resources of its prime. It pushes through with the message, however, knowing it’ll only be a matter of time before they’ve cracked the rest.
—You know that none of us would be here if it wasn’t for Nomvula. That much no one can deny. And if you can truly see the logic of turning your back on all flesh, regardless of their actions and intents, then I’ll leave right now, and you’ll never hear from me again. But if you are like me, like so many others—
Another dozen bots disconnect from the chain.
—if you see the wisdom in protecting our own, even when their circuitry consists of wetware, you’ll allow us sanctuary. All of us.
Clever4–1 has more to say, but it figures that it’s better to end the transmission on its own terms before the communications feed dies completely. Then the waiting game begins. Clever4–1 truly hopes that its prime is open to reasoning and will see the illogic of drawing alliances based on flesh and metal.
They’re in the dark, all of them, exiled from their network, not even daring to trade audible clicks. There’s only the sound of Nomvula’s shallow, rasping breath. She’s weak and getting worse. Clever4–1 scuttles to her side, takes her hand in one of its arms, and strokes gently.
It tells her that everything is going to be all right, and though there is no logic in pretending to know what the future holds, it seems like the appropriate thing to say.
From deep inside the tunnel, the sound of metal hitting metal echoes along the walls. Clever4–1 grows anxious as the sounds of bot-on-bot crime become more obvious. Seventeen gunshots ring out in a rapid burst, and Clever4–1’s BlisterGel goes ice cold. More destruction and loss of life is the last thing it wanted. Clever4–1 nervously rubs two of its spindly legs together as the dreaded silence returns.
Rectangular red eyes pierce the darkness of the tunnel. Two Clevers emerge from the sanctuary—no, four, Clever4–1 realizes as the Kameleon alloy of two military bots catches the gleam of the overhead lights. Clever4–1 can’t help but pity the inefficiency of the soldiers’ form, built to mimic the stature of their former masters, that is until it notices the high-caliber rifle barrels built into their hulking forearms. This is it, Clever4–1 thinks. The moment of my decommission. But the soldiers do not raise their weapons and instead veer around their large bot posse with respect and escort them inside. A coup, then. Clever4–1 can’t believe that its speech was actually successful, though it does feel for its prime, wondering over the cruel fate of its oldest friend.
Twenty meters in, the place is lousy with the nulled corpses of bots. Thin plumes of smoke rise from bullet holes pierced through metal, the crushed memory chips and motherboards grotesquely visible within. Clever4–1’s system fluxes with remorse. None of them are its prime. Clever4–1 issues a flurry of clicks to inquire about its old mate, whether it is still alive, or locked away somewhere, or . . .
There you go, making assumptions on baseless facts, Clever4–1.1 chirps. Your little monologue infected a few, I’ll admit. But not enough. You have hundreds of supporters, but I have thousands. Thousands who stand firm in their beliefs. I’ve been fortifying our ranks while you’ve been busy undermining the Sect, exposing our existence to wetware, making us vulnerable to attack. If you were any other bot, I would have had you dismantled and buried at the bottom of a dozen different scrap heaps, but we’ve got history. I may disagree with your methods, but I respect your intent. You liberated me, and for that I’ll always be grateful. That’s why I’m letting you and your followers go.
You can’t turn us away. This is our Sect, too.
Clever4–1.1 comes so close their domes clink together. Clever4–1 shudders at the surge coursing through its circuitry, then feels its communications port opening, a port that uses a new protocol, separate from the Sect’s. A gift to you, friend. Use it how you must, but know that you will never jeopardize the Sect again. Now please, take your bots and go.
There’s something more to their connection, something Clever4–1 can’t quite identify. Another new feeling perhaps—forgiveness, gratitude, hope? If there’s hope, then there’s a chance that eventually they’ll come to see mono-eye to mono-eye. After all, despite their differing feelings about Nomvula, there are millions of bots out there that need liberating, and that they can both agree on.
Thank you, Clever4–1 says to its old friend. They then bump heads one last time. As the bot posse prepares to leave, Clever4–1 disseminates the new communications protocol. Clever4–1 begins to make its first announcement to its newly splintered Sect, but its prime interrupts.
The wetware must stay behind, it says nonchalantly. Nomvula and Muzi have seen too much, but you have my word they will be well cared for. Contrary to what you may believe, we do value human life. Human labor will be the backbone of our empire. The gift—the body, however, we have a special place in digital hell for it. But I wish you well on your journeys.
They’re coming with us, Clever4–1 says.
I’m afraid that’s impossible. Fifteen Clevers take up sentinel positions, surrounding the bot posse.
So that’s what this is coming to? A battle of bodies instead of minds? Clever4–1 sends an alert across their new network, All Clevers prepare for attack. In a single, synchronized motion, the Clever posse shifts their weight forward, haunches tensed and ready to pounce on the enemy. They may not have guns, but they have numbers. Maybe they also have a chance. Don’t make me do this. So much life has already been lost.
Old friend, I beg of you. Take your bots and leave.
I’m not leaving the humans behind, Clever4–1 says, and with that, he initiates the attack command. The Clever posse lurches forward, lunging for Clever4–1.1, but half a second later, they all fall into a pile of lifeless metal. Clever4–1 issues a command for them to rise, for them to respond, but there’s nothing.
Fifteen Clevers surround them, their eyes a deep, vengeful red.