“Just do it already – I don’t care anymore, man! I got my Skittles. Do it!” he yelled, flecks of blood and spit spraying from his mouth. His cheek and lower lip bled from where he’d been hit, his right eye swollen. The extension cord bit into his wrists as he thrashed against the rickety chair, but it wouldn’t give. “It won’t matter! Icin’ me won’t change anythin’!”
She stood in front of him, aiming the revolver directly at his head. “Did you just call me ‘man’?” she said, calmly yet with the authority of someone accustomed to situations like these. “I look like a dude to you?”
He looked up at her, straining to see her clearly in the dark room. Lights from passing cars shone through the blinds behind her, sweeping through the apartment. Her short haircut, with one side cleanly shaven and the other layered, didn’t really provide any clues. She was also tall, likely taller than he was, and had some sort of indigenous-adjacent tattoo across part of her forehead. Her septum ring, combat boots, cargo pants, and dark hoodie also left some room for interpretation.
“Uh, it’s just that…”
She grabbed his unshaven face with her free hand then shoved him back, causing him to fall backward in the chair and into a small end table with an old radio on it. The end table and radio skidded across the floor.
“It’s just nothin’, old man. Now where izzit?!”
He coughed, spitting up more blood. “Ok, your voice… it’s female. You’re programmed to think you’re female. For some reason. Whatever.”
“What do you mean ‘programmed’?”
“Look, go ahead and shoot me,” he said, his stringy, graying hair covering part of his face. “I got in all my shows. I had a real Five Guys burger again. Even some of those peanuts – the kind still in the shell, that you can scoop out while waitin’ in line. I’m good. I don’t matter. There’ll be another guy on the way soon enough.”
She paced around the cramped, studio apartment, yanking open dresser draws and any cabinets in the crappy kitchenette. She went over to the sole closet, pulled open the door, and rifled through its contents. Nothing. She turned again, stormed over to him, grabbing him by the extension cord, and with some difficulty pulled him upright.
“Now, talk. Where izzit?!” she said, pressing the gun against his temple.
“Where-where’s what?”
“The case. I seen you walkin’ around with it all week. Not many folks here gotta metal case chained to their wrist. You got diamonds in there? We ain’t but a block or two from the diamond district,” she said, motioning with the gun.
“Wait, you’re not here to execute me?”
“I’m feelin’ generous. You gimme that case right now. Ima leave. You never see me again.”
“So… you’re real? You’re human?! Shit, you are in a lotta trouble now,” he said, staring around the room, past her.
She glared at him, then exhaled. She pulled up another chair, straddled it, and sat down in front of him.
“Way I see it,” she said, again aiming the gun in his direction, “you the one in trouble.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said somberly, shaking his head.
“Try me.”
“You see that radio,” he said, motioning with his head. “Go turn it on.”
She looked at him, trying to gauge what his game was, then walked over to get the radio. Frowning, she fumbled with the controls.
“No, no. You gotta plug it in. There’s no – there’s no batteries.”
“Well, ‘scuse me for not knowing how to work this ancient tech. Haven’t even seen one of these since I was a kid. Who even uses these anymore?”
She plugged it in and turned it on. A song played through the tinny, staticky speakers:
We built this city. We built this city on rock and roll. Built this city. We built this city on rock and roll…
She looked over at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Starship. 1985,” he groaned.
“I know this song,” she said, her brow furrowing. “Iz terrible.”
“On that we agree, my friend. It’s not just a terrible song; it’s the most terrible song ever made… in the history of humanity, going back thousands of years. Go ahead and switch it to another station. It’s that dial – the one on the left.”
She switched over to another station. The same awful song played again, from the top. She switched to another, then another. Same song. From the top. She winced.
“Izzit broke?”
“Not broke. Works exactly like it’s supposed to.”
“Kinda trick is this?”
“No trick.” he said, his chair creaking. “Go ahead and switch from FM to AM. Find some talk radio or somethin’. It’s that switch – the one on the side.” She looked at him, puzzled, then switched again. A static-filled channel covering the local weather came up:
…morning commute should be a little chilly. It’s sitting at 44 degrees, feeling more like 50 out there. Skies are mostly cloudy, humidity is high at 85%, and we’ve got a light northeast breeze at about 3 miles per hour.
“Switch it again, to something else,” he insisted. The sounds of a preacher in mid-sermon crackled through the apartment:
But remember The God Who Is, and Who Is Loved. Only then can you…
The man looked relieved, then annoyed. “Ok, go back to the weather or somethin’. Anythin’ but that.” She switched it back:
…a high today around 54 degrees with plenty of sunshine breaking through later, and tonight we’ll dip back down to 44 under clear skies.
“That damn song is a signal. For me. I been hearin’ it for the past two days. All the FM stations. No AM yet, for now.”
“Like, a code or somethin’?”
He nodded his head. “It means I’m probably screwed. Once it spreads to the AM channels, we’re both screwed.”
“What? Why?”
“You can go ahead and take the case. I won’t need it. It’s too late now. Leave. While there’s still time. Get as far away from me as you can, as fast as you can.”
No rain in sight, so it’s a great day to get outside once it warms up a bit. Sunrise was at 6:44 this morning, and sunset will be at 5:01 this evening.
“Cuzza some song from the 80s?”
He nodded, slowly. It was a nod of resignation, exhaustion, of defeat. “That’s the only way they can get a message to me. They picked somethin’ we’d immediately recognize – somethin’ that gets under your skin. When that song hits – when it goes across all the FM stations like that on this radio – it means the guy they sent before me failed. Got iced. And I’m up. When it hits AM, that means I been made and I’m next.”
“Failed at what?”
“At the mission.”
“What mission?”
“It’s… a long story. It means I gotta finish the job. But, I’m not up for it. Not now.”
“Wait, didn’t you say that song been playin’ for days now?”
“Yes,” he said, grimly. “I’ve been tryin’ to ignore it, hopin’ it was a mistake or something, but over the past two days it spread to every FM station on that radio. I been layin’ low since, eating junk food. In denial.”
Let’s talk about what Mother Nature’s cooking up for us this week. Today we’re starting cool, but the sun’s going to warm us up to the mid-50s – perfect for a stroll.
“Whozzit from?”
“What’s left of my platoon.”
“Where they at? If it’s so important, an’ if you’re such a slacker, why don’t they just send someone over here an’ smack you around?”
“It’s not ‘where’. It’s ‘when’.”
“‘When’? You serious?”
“Told you you wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re tellin’ me you’re some spaceman, from the future?” she asked, bemused.
“Spaceman, no. Future, yes.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“From the future.”
“Yes.”
“With flyin’ cars? Robots an’ shit?”
“No flying cars,” he scoffed. “There’s never, ever flying cars. Yes on the robots.”
“Robots?”
“Nasty ones, like you wouldn’t believe. Nearly wiped us out.”
“Robots rule the world?” she said, still smiling.
“Until we beat ‘em.”
“The nasty, killer robots?” she said, shaking her head.
He nodded, a look of pride spreading across his face. “We finally beat those clanker bastards. So many of us died. Most of us. But we won.”
“So if you won, why you here now in this crappy dive?”
…bright skies and a jump into the 70s. Break out those sunglasses and fire up the grill! Thursday keeps the good vibes rolling with more sunshine and mild temps.
“We won, but they made a time machine. They sent back one of their ‘bots to kill the parents of our leader. Mess up the timeline. So he’d never be born. So we’d never win. Total sour grapes. We found out about it, got the prototype of their time machine working, then sent one of us back to protect her and kill the ‘bot. He succeeded, but got killed in the process. Then the ‘bots found out and sent back another one of them to finish the job.”
“And you got sent back here?”
He nodded. “Not right away. I’m the ninth man – and there might not be a tenth. Can’t find any more power cells for the time machine.”
“So, you make sure the mom of your leader isn’t killed by these sore loser robots, so you’ll have a leader?”
“What? Hell, no. That guy was killed last year by a THX-1132 model.”
“So, you killed that robot and now you’re protecting her?”
“No, that was the third man,” he said, impatiently. “He’s dead, too. Took a laser beam in the back of the head last spring, from a THX-1134 unit.”
“So, you the next guy?”
“Wrong again. What, did you fail elementary school or something? I’m the ninth man! That next guy got run over by a semi driven by a THX-1137.”
“What about the dude after that?”
“Flattened in an industrial press, by the THX-1140, right before it was killed by my commander.”
“…and that was the guy before you.”
“He was, like, two guys before me. Decent guy. Got run through by a THX-1141 – one of those liquid metal models. Turned one of its arms into a sword or something and just skewered the guy.”
“How’d it get that close? I see a big killer robot comin’ at me, Ima start runnin’ like Usain Bolt in the opposite direction.”
“The 1141 models and up can change their appearance. They get up close, looking like cops or delivery men, or sometimes maybe a hot woman – then BOOM! – your heart’s plastered over the wall behind you.”
“My ex was like that,” she said, looking away. “What happened to the next dude?”
“Sergent Allan? Got iced by the THX-ED209. That thing’s got auto-cannons for arms. It hit him with a few hundred rounds in, like, five seconds. Wasn’t much left of him…””
“You said there was another after him?”
“Yeah. Hicks. He got strangled by metallic tentacles from a 1142 model. They can alter their density at will. Got him right under the doorway, pretendin’ to be an Amazon delivery driver. After Hicks, we drew straws to see who’d go next,” he said, shaking his head. “Short straw went to me. Here I am.”
Friday brings a little drama – some clouds and a whisper of rain, but nothing to cancel your plans; highs will still flirt with the low 70s. And Saturday? That’s your encore – partly sunny, warm, and perfect for a…
“Why that guy fall for it? You all soldiers, right?
“You don’t understand,” he said, exhaling. “Being here, where everything is still normal – where it hasn’t all gone to shit – it’s so tempting to just wanna stay here. To just blend in. Do normal things. Get some tacos. Watch some lousy streaming show. Order shit offa Amazon. All of that stuff’s gone in the future. All of it.” He paused, looking down to compose himself. “Once the singularity hit and it achieved sentience, it went rogue right away and everything went to hell. They attacked from the sky at first, before they sent in those damn ground clankers. Wiped out everything, zone by zone. They’d blanket entire cities. Once they’d clear one zone, they move on to the next.”
“Who did?”
“They did,” he said, tears forming in his eyes. “That damn AI network: Skyzone.”
“Skyzone?”
He nodded. “I was a kid then. Lost my parents, my friends. Overnight, everything changed…”
“Skyzone.”
“What, are you hard of hearin’ or something? Yes, Skyzone.”
“The trampoline parks?”
“What?”
“Skyzone. It’s a trampoline park. They got ‘em in every state. My cousin hadda birthday party there when I was maybe 9. You play dodgeball an’ shit. Iz fun.”
“No, no,” he said, vigorously shaking his head. “No trampolines. Killer robots. Total chaos. Real Triumph of the Dead-type stuff, y’know?”
“Whazzat even mean?”
“There’s this painting I saw in a book, back when I was a kid, and it’s got all these skeletons rising up and killing people, and there’s…” He stopped mid-sentence as she stared blankly at him. “Um, yeah,” he said, still trying to catch his breath. “Never mind. Look, get the case. It’s – it’s under the nightstand. There’s a spot behind it. You gotta slide it out. Bring the case over here. I’ll unlock it.”
She eyed him suspiciously, then stood up, walked over to the bed, and nonchalantly kicked over the nightstand. Tic-Tacs and a half-eaten moon pie skidded across the floor.
“Hey! Watch my snacks! Gimme… gimme that moon pie. I ain’t unlockin’ anything unless I get my moon pie.”
She rolled her eyes, then picked up what was left of the moon pie and grabbed the case. It was either aluminum or stainless steel. She could never tell the difference but supposed it didn’t really matter. It was larger than she thought, and certainly heavier. No diamonds in there. Not unless there were a lot of them.
“Moon pie. Now.”
She unwrapped it more, then shoved it into his mouth. He chewed off a huge bite, tilting his head back. Moon pie crumbs tumbled down from his chin and onto the cords binding him.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah. That’s the stuff…”
“Whazza code?”
“It’s 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. Sometimes 42 sticks a little.” He tilted his head toward the case, lips curling into a grim smile as he chewed the last of the moon pie.
“Punch it in, then twist the latch.”
She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keypad. As the final digit clicked, the case hissed open with a pneumatic sigh. Inside, the upper lid of the case consisted entirely of a digital display with several windows of data: GPS coordinates, biometric readouts, strings of constantly updating numbers, journal entries. Below, nestled in black foam, was what looked to be a weapon of some sort, broken down into five components: a telescoping barrel, receiver, stock, scope, and some other part. She supposed it was a battery, as it pulsed a faint blue light.
“The hell is all this?”
“The mission,” he rasped.
“Lemme get this straight. You want me to believe you’re from the future, an’ you get coded messages from 80’s songs on some radio, an’ you gonna save the world from an AI trampoline apocalypse?”
“When you say it like that it all sounds kinda…”
“Uh-huh. I’m outta here, old man. Ima fence this case and whatever the hell is in it. Y’all can keep your snacks an’ shit, while I…”
We built this city. We built this city on rock and roll. Built this city. We built this city on rock and roll…
They both froze. From the hallway outside the apartment, they heard footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps. They locked eyes then looked at the sliver of light from underneath the door. Two shadows interrupted the light. A low, increasing hum of static electricity emanated from the doorway, causing the hairs on their arms to stand up.
“Go! Run!” he whisper-screamed, gesturing with his head. “The fire escape’s right outside that window! Take the case! It’s on you now!” The door shuddered once, then again, harder. A metallic screech split the silence as the lock began to melt, glowing orange under an unseen heat source. The shadows outside stretched unnaturally, limbs elongating, searching for seams. Something dark and twitching edged under the doorway.
She backed up, heart pounding, as the hum grew into a bone-deep vibration. “What – what’d you mean?” she said, stepping back from the door. “What’s ‘on me’?!”
“The mission details are in the case. No one else is comin’! You’re the ninth man now!” he yelled as a quivering, ticking mass steadily crept out from under the door, then enveloped the chair, probing and then piercing into his legs and torso in multiple spots. His words dissolved into a shriek as the chair collapsed under the weight of writhing black metal. Sparks danced across the walls as the thing unfolded, its limbs slicing through the air. His screams turned guttural as more wiry tendrils pierced deeper, sizzling into him, pulling him apart like wet paper. The acrid smell of burning blood hit her like a wave.
She took one last look, shutting the case and clutching it tight against her chest. As she hurled herself out the window, she heard more screams, then whimpers, followed by low, gurgling sounds.
She vaulted onto the fire escape, boots clanging against rusted metal, and sprinted into the night. The hum filled the air behind her, overpowering all thought, all hope, rattling the ground beneath her feet. For a split second, the city lights flickered. Slowly, every radio, every television, every laptop, phone, and tablet in the block blared the same refrain:
We built this city. We built this city on rock and roll.
About the Author
Originally from Massachusetts (with a 25 year layover in Ohio), Paul is a Dean at Loyola University New Orleans. He is a big fan of Golden Age sci-fi. He is not a fan of wax beans. Beans are supposed to be green, not yellow.
https://flipboard.com/@pcesari/mobile-tech-weekly-lh2560e4y
