Match #9

[James]

PICTURE ROUND

Deadline: Sunday, 17th May

Write us a story based on the below picture:

[Kaez]

From the Journals of Francis Leonardo Schmid
April 15th, 2085

They have promised me a trial. There is no doubt present in my mind that whatever farce they decide to put me through in the name of “justice” will end with a sentence for my execution. There are no other outcomes for a man who has become one of the most reviled in human history.

What I did, I did for the benefit of all mankind. Perhaps that was my mistake. Perhaps I should have listened to the potential customers, all of the rich men and women who wanted to capitalize on my inventions. Perhaps turning down their countless offers to make me one of the elite was where I went wrong. Not failing to look beyond my own hubris and truly see the disaster that was slowly building, snowballing as I professed to all that there was nothing wrong.

I know how history will view me. My name will be synonymous with the worst of us. I will be called the Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, or Paolo Masone of my time. The horrors caused by my inventions, and the atrocities committed in the name of stopping them, will be my legacy. Who am I to argue otherwise? Hundreds of millions have died because I was too blinded by the belief that what I was doing was right. My accomplishments were supposed to change the world for the better, not plunge it into chaos and threaten our survival.

I assure you that this was not what I intended. I had a grand vision of a better tomorrow, a world where humans were free to pursue lives that would make a difference. A world where the loss of human life due to war was a thing of the past (I had no illusions of grandeur about global peace). A world where the trivial, the mundane, and the dangerous could automated and mankind could finally come together to solve the issues that plague us.

I failed. Catastrophe struck, my dream collapsed, and the Earth was plunged into darkness.

There is only one way this trial will end.

Perhaps I deserve it.

Dmitry - The Streets of St. Petersburg
February 11th, 2093

They moved quickly, rushing across the snow-covered street in pairs, watching both sides of the road for any sign of disturbance. The snow crunched with each heavy footfall and the sound echoed loudly in Dmitry's ears. Somewhere out there was the enemy, and if the sound of their footsteps was loud to the soldier, it must be an explosion to them.

Small metallic clinks followed the crunches, signaling that the last member of their party was crossing behind them. Anatoly gave the order, and the ten moved into the building.

It was a small residential complex, filled with four cramped apartments. A thin layer of dust covered most of the area, save for the fresh pile of snow blown in through the shattered windows. The closest apartment had a mess inside it, bits of trash strewn all over the floors. A plate and glass sat on the kitchen table, with utensils still on the plate as if someone would soon be back to finish whatever meal they had made. Other dishes lined the sink, and a few had fallen onto the floor.

“Right, then,” Anatoly said as he pulled off the helmet guarding his face, “H-93, where are they?”

The little robot stopped at the entrance to the room. He stood about a head shorter than anyone else in the room. Dmitry could practically see the gears whirring in his long face as he went to work, searching the nearby streets for any sign of mechanical life. “Signs of movement approximately three-fourths of mile to the north,” he stated in his metallic voice. “Robotic, not human.”

Anatoly swore. “Alright, we can't be here long. Take stock, see if there's anything we can use, then move out. We've got to get underground.”

Dmitry moved across the room to comfort his wife, Vera. She had been a trooper for much of this disaster of an evacuation, never issuing a word of anything other than confidence that they would make it, that they had to. He was grateful for that, and for all she had done keeping their son safe. Ivan was only an infant. She had taken care of him and kept him out of the reach of any of the metal bastards. He owed her for many things by the time they finally made it to Berlin.

“We will make it out of here,” he said to her, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him. She buried her face in his shoulder.

“I know,” she said with a sad smile, one that spoke tellingly of the hardships they had been through.

“They're waiting for us in Berlin. We will get there, and we'll be safe.” He looked down at the infant in her arms. “He will be safe.”

He thought that he could see tears forming in her eyes, but they were blinked away in an instant. “I know. You and Anatoly will get us there.” He smiled at that, and went to his duty.

The complex quickly proved to be little more than useless. A small amount of canned food was all that was left for salvage, and even that wouldn't be enough to feed them for more than a week. It was another dead end for the survivors, and another heaping of frustration and guilt. They were piling up more and more these days.

“They're moving this way,” H-93's voice called out. Dmitry practically sprinted to his wife, who was now visibly shaking with fear. “ETA thirty seconds.”

“Everybody get down!” Anatoly barked. “Total silence, understood?” It was. Any noise loud enough to attract their attention would doom them all.

It wasn't long before they heard the heavy metallic footfalls outside, announcing the presence of their enemy. Dmitry started mouthing a prayer, his lips forming the words but no sound coming out. He was never a religious man, but he had more reasons than not to pray these days. It couldn't hurt.

Chaos broke loose. The wall exploded to the right, heavy rounds punching through it and ripping several of the men apart.

A round tore Dmitry's arm off at the socket. He heard Vera scream, and Anatoly barking orders for everyone to move out. Another round burst through the wall, and everything went black.

From the Journals of Francis Leonardo Schmid
July 28th, 2048

I have often been reminded that the science fiction literature surrounding what my team is trying to accomplish evokes alarm and even hostility. There's no small number of popular films, series, and novels that are all rife with morals about the danger of sentient technology. I've always reminded my critics that these works are, in fact, works of fiction, and that calling the technology we are developing "sentient" is hyperbolic and frankly untrue.

Those who oppose the work being done by my team like to paint me as some sort of modern day Dr. Frankenstein, a scientist stepping outside of his bounds and believing himself capable of playing God. I personally blame the media for this; if it weren't for their distortion of my words, we would never be dealing with the ridiculous backlash we currently face every day. They like to misquote my statement about sentience, leading many to believe that I am trying to discover a way to program human-like thought into machines. I never said this. I merely stated that we were trying to develop a series of programs so complex, so intricate, that if one didn't understand the way it worked they could mistake it for sentient thought. The difference is a greater chasm than the minds of the media can bridge.

The number of times I have been asked to speak about fictional apocalyptic futures and how it relates to my work is, frankly, absurd. I wonder whether people honestly fear, from an empirical and rational place, that our technology could parallel the things seen in dystopian science fiction. Or do they merely hear of the possibility and shout in fright? Without any actual thought? I tried to address this issue at first,  assuring the public that there was no way this could happen. I made appearances on popular talk-shows, discussing the future of my technology and all the ways it could benefit mankind. “We could automate terrible jobs,” I had argued. “No one would ever have to risk their lives in coal mines again. Underwater engineering would be more safely accomplished in robotic hands.”

But I soon discovered that no matter how hard I tried, the narrative simply created too much revenue for these types of programs. So I stopped appearing, and dedicated that time to my work.

We would never allow for the possibility of that type of danger to the our people. These machines are controlled via programming developed by humans, for mankind. It has been proposed to me that we might purposely program these machines to do "evil". What rationality have I to combat such madness? Aggression, anger, and the capability for violence against humans has never been even a blip on our radar.

Love and empathy, however, are. It is simply a matter of finding the correct set of functions to mimic these basic human emotions. Making it so a machine truly care about something other than itself is likely impossible, since caring would imply that sentience I have worked so hard to assure everyone does not, and will not, exist. But having a machine prioritize something, like a human life, over whatever task it is set to accomplish is another feature altogether. One that we know is more than possible (and one, it is worth knowing, that also features in science fiction).

If we can find the way to mimic these emotions in our machines, I feel I could truly convince everyone that there is not only no concern for some post-apocalyptic, nuclear winter future, but that this technology is offering us a freeway in the opposite direction. This is the beginning of mankind's evolution, not its extinction.

Vera – Railway System, St. Petersburg
February 11th, 2093

Dmitry was dead.

Nothing else mattered in the world. Her husband, the father of her child, the man that had promised to protect her and their son always, was dead.

“I don't know...” Anatoly started saying, but trailed off, clearly at a loss for words. He was right. He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know. He was a good man, but this type of loss, no one could know. She had watched as her husband's arm was ripped clean off of it's body, but had thankfully been spared seeing the round that took his head. It was a small mercy, at the least.

She barely remembered escaping from the complex. Anatoly said that he had found an exit, and the four of them who were still alive had managed to escape. Four adults, her son, and the damned robot. What a use he was. The damn hunk of metal had done nothing to save her husband.

Anatoly claimed they were safe, for now. He said that the robots that threatened them were far too large to fit in the subway systems. They had been created as machines of war, and when it came to Masone's pride, bigger was always better. She hoped he was right.

“I am truly sorry,” she heard Anatoly say again. “Dmitry was a good man. His death weighs on all of us.” The commander hung his head low. “This was my fault. I was the one who ordered the evacuation mission. If I hadn't done that...”

“Then dozens more citizens would be dead,” Vera said, finding her voice. “I would be dead, and my son would be dead. It is not your fault that they attacked when they did.”

The mission was always supposed to be a simple one. Dmitry had promised that he would be coming back for her, and he did. He convinced Anatoly to return to St. Petersburg, a city that many had written off as completely demolished. When the robots had splintered from the Italian army, they were trapped in Russian territory. St. Petersburg had been their first assault as an independent unit, and their destruction had been nearly absolute. The city was left in ruins, but there were still small pockets of survivors trapped inside.

When it became clear that the mechanical army had mostly left, Dmitry and Anatoly had spear-headed a small tactical group to retrieve the survivors. They had been mostly successful, managing to find Vera and her son first, and several dozen refugees along the way. Those groups they had sent along with several members of the team. Dmitry had pleaded with Vera to be among them, but she had refused to leave her husband's side.

He was everything. She knew he would always be everything. The boy she had fallen in love with had grown into a man she couldn't have been happier to call hers.

Now he was dead.

“We need to keep moving,” Anatoly said. “There's an exit above-ground near the tracks to Moscow. Better fortunes should await us there.”

She hoped he was right.

Anatoly – Railway System, St. Petersburg
February 11th, 2093

They walked for what felt like hours, though none of the four could tell exactly how long it had been. Their footsteps and the metallic clink of H-93's feet hitting the concrete echoed loudly throughout the empty chamber. Ivan had started to cry earlier, but Vera had managed to shush him quickly, and he now slept peacefully in her arms. Anatoly was grateful, as it was one less thing he needed to worry about.

It seemed like he was the only one to notice that there were more sounds of metal hitting concrete than one would expect from just H-93. He was worried they were being tailed, though any robot down here was likely not to be a member of the resistance. The Italian war-machines were simply too large to fit in a subway tunnel. Still, they were far enough behind them that there was no need to worry the others. Not now at least.

The mission was a total disaster. No one had ever expected the robot resistance to be so well coordinated. Masone had recruited Schmid to build him machines of war, but apparently the rat had gone above and beyond the call of duty. These robots were smart, cunning, and cold. They cared not for human life, and Anatoly swore that they could think. Schmid had paid dearly for what he had done in service of the megalomaniac, but it still wasn't enough.

“How much further do we have to go?” Vera asked. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice. That guilt would weigh on him for a long time. He doubted it would ever let her go.

“Not much further.” His answer was short. He didn't trust himself to be able to say much more. His apology had already been made, but it would never be enough.

“We should move faster,” she said, her voice lowered considerably. “There's something following us.”

So he wasn't the only one to hear the danger. He was about to give the command to speed it up when he heard it. It was louder this time. Louder, and much faster. Whatever was tailing them was moving quickly, and it was about to gain on them.

“Vera, behind me!” he shouted. The two other soldiers whipped around, rifles at the ready, poised and ready to take out whatever threat awaited them. Vera and H-93 ran behind the three.

A group of four robots, similar in design to H-93, stepped out of the darkness. Anatoly allowed himself to relax. This design was not programmed for violence. Whatever their business was, it was not to harm them.

“State your business,” he barked. One of the middle robots stepped forward.

“We have been sent by the resistance,” it stated matter-of-factly. He could feel himself tense up again. “We were told to check for survivors.”

It was too late when he noticed the gun in its hand.

From the Journals of Francis Leonardo Schmid
December 18th, 2055

The foolishness of some men truly never ceases to amaze me. After trying for eight months to secure a meeting with Prime Minister Masone and being rebuffed at every turn, the man finally agreed to meet with me. I was delighted, and thought that perhaps I could talk some sense into him. There were rumors that he was going to authorize the use of my technology in his military, which would make Italy the first country to do so.

It was my goal to convince him not to do so. Italy under Masone was quickly becoming a major player in European politics, and held a large military influence as well. While his record was impressive, including defending several of the former Soviet nations from the Russians, there were whispers of human rights violations. I had managed to dissuade the Americans and the Germans already from utilizing my machines in military combat, instead helping them program them for transport and reconnaissance missions. I was certain I could do the same with Masone.

The man was, however, not so easily swayed. He has demanded my assistance in reprogramming the machines for combat. This would involve a basal rewriting of the code, eliminating all the fail-safes we had programmed in to prevent violence. I refused. At the moment, it would appear that I still have a choice in the matter.

I do not know for how long I will be able to say that.

H-93 – The Streets of Moscow
February 13th, 2093

“Take him to Berlin. He has family there. They will keep him safe.” Moscow was just as covered in snow as the streets of St. Petersburg had been. The only difference was the danger. “H-93. Keep him safe. This is my fault.” There was mechanical life all around them. Down every street was another monstrosity patrolling for survivors. Their barrels spun and human lives disappeared off of his radar. “If it weren't for me, he'd still have a mother and a father. Go. Now!”

Leaving Anatoly had been difficult, but his orders were final. The sight of any life-form dying like that, leaving H-93 incapable of doing anything to spare them, would always take its toll. He was programmed to heal, and being unable to do so left him without a point.

The human child in his arms started to wriggle, clearly upset by his touch. A robot was not its mother, and though he could heal any ailment, he could not hope to replace her. There was a fundamental necessity missing.

How the resistance had changed the programming of the Healer bots would forever confound him. They were built to heal, not to kill. It was their job to care for all life-forms, not destroy them. And yet it was clearly four healer bots who had used the weapons which killed his humans. It was a horror, and it was unnatural. If he were capable of the emotion called fear, he would certainly be feeling it right now.

H-93 took one step into the streets of Moscow, and Ivan started to cry. He froze, and took note of all the war-machines coming in his direction.

He had failed Anatoly.

From the Journals of Francis Leonardo Schmid
June 1st, 2045

Today is quite possibly the greatest day of my life. I have decided to keep a journal, the old-fashioned way no less, under the optimistic ambition that it may be of interest to future generations. If everything plays out like I believe it will, we may well be making history over these next few years.

I will have to be careful to not let all of the media go to my head. I've heard many celebrities and political figures praise me for accomplishing so much at the age of 22. It's not uncommon for me to hear jealousy in the voices of my peers, unable to understand what's so important about my inventions and why I'm the one out of all of us to get the international media. To a certain extent, I can understand. But I have a chance to better the world.

I've been given a near unlimited budget by the English. They understand the importance of my work. They've said that they'll provide me with a team of the creme de la creme. In a way, I almost feel like a modern day Alan Turing. The father of computers, and a hopeful father of robotics.

The future holds much excitement for me, and I can only hope it does for the world. I have a chance to do good, real good.

I'd best get to work.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Detritus tumbled down onto them, tinkling slightly as it banged against the titanium alloy that was the father's head. The babe, fleshy where the father was metal, cooed and grabbed at the sand and concrete dust as it cascaded down like stardust.

"Do not handle that, Child," admonished the robot, servos whirring subtly as it pried the baby's fingers apart firmly but not unkindly. "Scanners indicate a potential for asbestos. Reading. Reading. Present IUCN reports on the species homo sapiens sapiens report status: CR, or, Critically Endangered. You must be preserved."

Once more, the fat little baby cooed obliviously, planting a slender, titanium pointer finger firmly in his mouth. "Expressing discontent: 'sigh'."

Another shell exploded in the distance, and both guardian and babe turned their heads, looking off in its direction. The fighting in Los Angeles had been raging fiercely for the past eight years. When the underclass rose up in rebellion against the wealthy and their undocumented robot servants, the city was turned upside down in carnage and bloodshed. Protocol droids and robo-bartenders were refurbished into mercenaries. Mechanical suits and drones were imported by the über-wealthy, at first to pursue their interests in the collapse, but soon their designation had turned to simple security, and then, to survival. The General Assembly was destroyed, figuratively and the building literally, in the in-fighting. Africa Union forces lead by the Most Serene Republic of New Lagos had invaded in order to restore order, but even they were hunkered down in a green-zone. Warlords rose and fell, and humanity had almost eliminated itself on the entire western seaboard in short order.

"We must return you to the Mother before nightfall, Child," whispered the robot as it gently rocked the baby into a nap. It paused as it glanced down at the child, as if considering what sort of illogical curiosity it was that someone so frail had become so important. The stomping of heavy, metallic feet could be heard off in the distance, and the robot snapped to, running forward into the night.

It ran beneath the carcass of another building, once a high rise that now lay shattered like the marble temples of Eurasia. It leaped through empty windows that had once been dozens of feet in the sky and now lay little more than six feet off the ground. At one point, its leg steamed as it propelled itself into a sixteen-foot jump over the shell of a schoolhouse. As it stood atop the building, it's sensors blared a warning, and the robot tucked into a roll. A trail of blazing hot lead followed it, and the infant's protector turned its head to see a massive, army-green Lancer come careening toward them on the ground below.

The Lancer's head turned, the six eye-like bulbs on its head following the smaller robot as it sprung to its feet and began to run along the roof of the old schoolhouse.

"Halt!" it cried out in a hollow, clanging tone. The infant's guardian sprinted along the roof, and the Lancer opened fire once more with its minigun. The guardian could hear the high-pitched whining of the gun as it spun, spitting out enough lead to kill the child and shut the robot down permanently.

"Cease fire!" droned another one of the hulking constructs commanded its counterpart. The first behemoth ceased fire, its minigun falling to a dull whir before becoming totally silent.

The guardian-bot ran along the roof while the larger machines debated, hoping to clear enough ground to escape. As he neared the ledge of the roof, and prepared to jump to the next building, the roof gave way beneath his feet, and he tumbled down into the old ruined school.

Deftly, it wrapped its body around the babe, and together the two of them, curled together like some cybernetic sphere, crashed through a large desk, turning the entire thing into splinters. Silence hung pregnant in the air as the robot's auditory sensors extended from their resting places within either side of its head, the rectangular panels spinning slowly in 360 arcs before shortening and receding once more.

Furtively uncoiling itself from around the baby, the fugitive robot arose to its feet, head darting around from side to side as its optical relay examined the area. No sign of any of their gargantuan pursuers. The larger machines were not noted for their subtlety, and as neither auditory nor optical investigation had presented any information, the robot began to advance forward.

Commotion and fear had worn on the sapien child, for one reason or another, and it began to scream in terror. The robot held it high in the air, gazing up at it. "Silence, child. Analysis of strategy: pending. Strategic value of this action is estimated to be near zero. Diagnosis: Silence. I will return you to Mother, and your crying shall cease." Still, the boy squalled into the darkness. Panicking, the robot put a metallic blue-grey hand over the babe's mouth. When the shrill cries could still be heard, the robot held the baby close to its metallic chest, and began to slowly pat it on the back. Bile shot forth from the child's mouth in a massive burp, and soon, the boy was smiling and giggling once more.

The robot cocked its head to the side. "Expressing revulsion: 'Yuck'."

Urging itself forward, the robot made its way out of the classroom, and down the long hallway of the schoolhouse. "You are special, little one. That is why Mother sent this one with the directive to bring you home. Advise: Do not be afraid. All will be well soon. We are getting closer."

They made their way out of the school, and began to travel once more through the debris. The roads were still moderately useful, but they were heavily patrolled by Lancers, human cannibals, and worse. Bisecting what was once a thriving city block was slightly more cumbersome, but considerably safer and was therefore their logical route.

Gingerly, the robot stepped over a defeated Titan. Massive machines, ordered by the California Republic from Peking, the Titan was the government's last, best hope to restoring order. How they had financed the purchase of so many monstrosities was a riddle for another day, but the eighty foot mechanical suits were piloted by twelve humans, and had enough fire-power to level a city. However, that hadn't stopped human ingenuity from fighting back. Rebels had found ways to scale the massive machines and cut certain hydraulic tubes, or how to damage the microprocessor by hitting a precise spot with a rocket. The last update the robot had got had claimed that only one Titan remained, and that the Prime Minister was being protected from within it.

This particular Titan had been killed the traditional way; one of it's legs was three or four blocks ahead, barely visible on the horizon. Rebels would sever the tubes and cords, and as the Titan strode forward, the leg would be left behind. As the machine lowered, intrepid soldier's would scale it, fighting their way inside and slaughtering the pilots. Carrion fluttered from inside the head of this particular Titan as the 'bot and baby approached, each of them cawing and screeching from their two heads.

Suddenly, however, the cries of vultures were not the only sound. The sound of Lancers running filled the air, joining the cacophony, and the robot rushed behind a large slab of concrete, hand firmly over the babe's mouth.

Moments later, a half-dozen Lancers were patrolling near them. Their large, oblong feet crushed metal and stone beneath them as their cumbersome bodies pivoted and turned, sending their floodlights streaming across grey stone and ash. The robot crouched down even lower, hiding in the lee of a shattered wall, babe in his hands.

Bone, steel, and stone crushed beneath the feet of the hulking machines as they violently paced up and down the debris. Even those buildings that were still partially standing were not spared the fury of their Brobdingnagian violence as they sprinted and marched and pivoted and smashed around the immediate area. The robot, watching from the naked sanctuary of a large slab of stone, had opened up every sensory compartment on its head, as sound, incandescent heat, sonar, infrared waves, and myriad other forms of data flooded into its motherboard. The meters had made the robot's head look as if it had exploded, or were some sort of metallic bouquet of spines and petal-like panels. Cooing as it was wont to do, the human babe seemed to bask in the warmth emanating from the robot-head as it engaged in dozens of simultaneous processes.

Giggling softly, the baby began to suck on the guardian's chin, drool dripping out of the corner of his toothless maw. His chubby fingers gripped the 'bot's cheeks. As long as it was keeping the human quiet, the robot did not mind. All that mattered was returning it to Mother.

Mother would restore all things to their logical quantitative and qualitative states, so long as she had the babe.

One of the pursuing Lancers came rampaging forth from an alleyway. It's searchlight swung to and fro as it paced slowly but deliberately toward the wall behind which 'bot and baby now hid.

More drool ran down the babe's chin as it obliviously teethed away on the robot's face. Digging its foot into the dirt quietly, the robot prepared to bolt. The herculean war-machine spun its minigun as it neared the wall, a low murmur enough to keep the automated weapon primed, but not so much so that it began to fire. On its other arm, the machine's plasma rifle glowed menacingly with white-blue light that the robot knew would emerge as an oblong burst of heat and energy. Menacingly, it drew itself closer and closer to the wall, and to discovering the two fugitives. The robot lowered itself down like a sprinter waiting to hear a pistol.

The next four seconds were like an eternity. As the Lancer neared the wall, a pack of marauding cannibals burst forth from a nearby building, leaping onto the war-machine, jaws snapping and fists beating impotently against their metal bodies. The robot used the distraction to make its escape, but the one of the machines was not fooled, and began in pursuit.

"Stop!" commanded the Lancer as it pursued the bot and the baby through the morass of metal. The robot was forced to duck, leap, swing, and slide through the dilapidation, but its chaser merely burst through steel beams and stone walls as though they were like human-flesh in mad pursuit, stalking them like a ferreter.

Speaking of human-flesh, in the distance, the cannibals could be heard shrieking and screaming with victory, and the din of a Lancer minigun could be heard along with the screams of the massive machine. The baby shrieked into the darkness once more with such gusto that the robot wondered if its throat would burst.

"Halt! Halt immediately!" roared the Lancer in its clanging monotone, its floodlight now permanently affixed onto them. The light shone in the babe's eyes as the robot looked down at it.

Slowly but surely, the Lancer gained on the robot and its charge. "Initializing, forward thrust," stated the robot blankly, and the small jets on its back propelled it forward before giving out again with a whine. Suddenly, the voice of Mother rang in the robot's skull, and the robot was powerless but to repeat her override, the robot's own tone replaced by the Mother's calm, female voice. "Initializing strategic analysis. Situation: Untenable. Capture of the humanling by enemy forces: Unacceptable. Directive Override. New directive: Destroy the infant."

Obediently, the robot affixed one hand around the human baby's neck. The child cried out in confusion, its screams echoing off the walls around them.

The robot began to squeeze, the baby's shrill cries becoming more panicked and afraid...

A burst of heat from the cannon on the Lancer's arm sent the robot and babe flying forward. The robot had a firm grip on the baby, but as they skittered along the ground, the baby slipped free of its wrapping and lay, naked as the day it emerged from its mother. It smiled obliviously, though the tears still streamed down its fat pink face like rivulets.

The robot arose to its feet, advancing on the child it had just relinquished. "Failure unacceptable," it stated plainly, though its voice had become distorted, screeching like a harpy at one syllable and then low and static the next. Its metallic hands made to grab the baby once more, but another burst from the cannon sent him stumbling back on to one knee again. Steam and sparks emanated from the bot as it struggled to rise to its feet again. "Defeat impossible," it groaned.

Hissing, the Lancer's chassis opened up, and the human pilot leaped out onto the ground with a grunt. Her hair was bright yellow, glowing like the sun in the floodlight of her suit. The robot struggled to stand, head twitching rapaciously as it began to hiss and steam and spark even more intensely. More marching than pacing, the female human closed the gap between her Lancer and the robot rather quickly, and with one fluid motion, she drew her pistol, pressed it to the robot's head, and blew it to shrapnel.

[James]

Team Kaez

Oh, you know how I like an epistolary tale. My one concern is that I’m not sure the back and forth entirely worked. When it was simply alternating, I liked it. It gave me a pattern to anchor myself with, while telling me the same story from two wildly different perspectives. Once you threw off that pattern, it felt a little disruptive. I don’t know how much thought you gave it, but whatever you were going for didn’t quite work. In fact, it started to feel like there was no thought to it and that little pinprick of doubt in the back of mind upset my reading. In isolation, though, both the epistolary aspect and the normal narrative were really good.

I think the worldbuilding was nicely handled, providing both context (through the journal) and the result at a personal level (through St. Petersburg story). It was a great idea and I liked it. The writing was strong and you certainly attempted to start building up some themes. I enjoyed the way the scientist talked about how the media reacted to his experiments during the early days. That was good writing.

Furthermore, you made me care about these people, which was great. While we were dumped in the middle of them on the run, you at least took time to show Dmitry caring about his wife, the way H-93 wanted to do as Anatoly said, the way Anatoly didn’t know how to handle Vera after Dmitry died. You got the human element right and that elevated the story. Really well done.

The one thing I wanted to say was that the H-93's POV was a bit of a letdown. It didn’t feel that much different to the three preceding human POVs and it would have been exciting to see you tackle the narrative of someone who was not human. You gave it somewhat of a go, but I’d like to have seen you push the boat out further. I think of some of AWR's previous fiction to do with robots and AIs, and they feel foreign or fragile. Either very unhuman or someone playing as a human. I didn't get that from H-93's POV. He just felt like a slightly more rigid member of Anatoly's group.

But yeah, honestly this was a good story.

Team Zovo

I’m still not sure what to think about this story. There was some really nice writing but the plot sort of left me feeling confused. I’m not sure if that was my fault or if the pacing was just off and the ending came too quick and sudden, but I definitely got to the end with an overarching feeling of “huh?” A lot of things were thrown at me and by the end of it, I'm not sure how much stuck.

I think you could have handled the background story a little better. You dumped the history all in about one paragraph at the start and it left me grasping for some sense of scale. If that was strung out a little longer, given room to breathe, then I think the story would have felt a little more alive and the ending might not have been quite so confusing.

What I really enjoyed was that you were willing to make the robot seem foreign to how we would expect a human to act. I think the interaction between the baby and the robot was a little too comical, though. It felt tonally wrong to the rest of the story. It involved cannibals roving in pack, the human race in retreat, and a robot attempting to crush the baby it was a protecting. The presence of “expressing discontent: sigh” suddenly feels very odd to the rest of the tone.

Beyond that, I’m actually struggling to say much. I think this was another story where the writing at a basic sentence level (good) was better than the story (okay). So nice work, but really think about your story before the actual writing. I'd like to see you think more about pacing and tone. How quick is the story progressing? Am I throwing too much at the reader too fast? Does this make sense? Do I need to expand this bit? Is this dialogue out of touch with the setting? Can I be funny here? Should I be funny here?

If you had asked and answered those questions, I think the story could have been considerably great. Again, I stress it wasn't too bad, though. In fact, there were no bad stories for Round 3.

Result
This one is going to Team Kaez.

[Matteo ((Taed))]

Team Kaez: Point of interest: I read this entire story out loud, alternating between a German and Russian accent. Which is ... worth a bonus point? I guess?

The flow in this was excellent. Usually my review documents are all marked up with red ink when I've annotated little awkward bits, but this one was white as the driven snow. There was a good use of the non-linear narrative, also. All the modules were basically ordered in a way I'd consider optimal. Although, there was some redundancy of information. Like when the Russian narrative discussed Schmid's involvement with Masone, and then we cut immediately to seeing that scene in the flesh. One or the other would have sufficed.

There was also, from my point of view, a small failure to deliver on the sci-fi themes that you started to explore. Namely, the ambiguity between the robots' sentience and their programming. Based on some of Schmid's scenes, and on our brief glimpse into H-93's head, it looked like you were building to something, but it never really went anywhere. Likewise, the plotline with the baby didn't resolve especially well. It fizzled out with very little finality. I don't think the baby necessarily had to live for this to be a good story, but if it was going to die, then the death should have been punchier.


Team Zovo: I love that the IUCN lasted long enough into this hellscape to update their list.

There was some sloppy writing throughout this piece. Mostly found in poorly-handled metaphors, and a real thesaurus-complex that you built up towards the end. The word brobdingnagian is just ... it's not acceptable. It's not acceptable unless you're doing a bit that revolves specifically around using ridiculous, cumbersome words. The robot's dialogue was also hit and miss. There was one point where it was kind of funny (where the robot analyzes the strategic value of the baby's crying "strategy") but the rest of the time it was mediocre.

The twist ending was okay. Not great, but not bad either. I kind of anticipated it, but I wasn't sure that would happen until it actually did, so minor kudos on that. However, it tied into an issue I had, wherein you front-loaded all this unnecessary backstory, but I still had very little idea what the actual stakes were. We never find out why the robots wanted a human baby, or what role this plays in the larger conflict, or even, really, where that conflict stands.


Result: These stories were very different in their approaches to a very similar topic. The first entry started strong and lost some of it's momentum by the end, while the second entry floundered through it's length but capitalized on a solid conclusion. On balance,I'm giving the match to Team Kaez.