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P R O J E C T S E N T I E N T Part III: The Brothers
By Parasaur.w
P R O J E C T S E N T I E N T
Part Three: The Brothers
Taos, New Mexico
July 23, 2024
5:15 am
Boris Kosorov sat in the kitchen, applying an icepack to Steve Cursman's swollen shoulder. The situation looked grim. Steve drifted in and out of consciousness periodically and often babbled about the fishing trip he took with his brother ten years ago. “Poor old Greg,” he said about his brother, “can’t stomach anything. I was putting the worm on the hook and Greg just couldn’t hold it. He ran into the cabin and didn’t come out till we got home.” He looked at the Russian man with a serene smile painted on his face.
“What happened in there, Stevey?” Boris asked, feeling very worried.
Steve laughed a little, “Oh you know. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. It was just your run of the mill encounter-with-an-evil-robot-and-having-it-pounce-on-you-and-slice you-up type of visit.” For the fourth time, Steve’s head lolled back and he snored in a dreamless sleep.
Boris sighed, and wrapped up the First Aid kit. He glanced back at Steve and noticed something on his neck. As he got closer to inspect it, he realized it was a spot of dried blood. Boris wet a paper towel and washed it off, assuming it had somehow originated from the gash in his arm, though he didn’t have the means to explain how it got there. But when the blood was wiped away, the Russian noticed something else. A small, crescent shaped laceration. He shrugged it off and went to wash his hands in the sink.
For the moment, Boris was the only one awake. Steve snored in a chair over in the corner, while Shirley Becker slept fitfully on the other side of the kitchen, resting her head on the table. The room was eerily quiet, save the rhythmic breathing of Steve, which was very audible. All of this drove Boris crazy. “Went for a walk, be back soon.” He scribbled untidily on a spare scrap of paper. And, taking a full water bottle, he headed out the door.
* * *
Project Sentient observed the human walking through the white corridors in its dark lair on a computer screen. Occasionally the groan of Harry Child would be heard, but that was all. The robot swiveled its freakish head 180 degrees and faced the three prototypes that stood in the center of the room. They were silent and very still, their cameras staring at nothing, unblinking. Project Sentient was reminded of the marble chess pieces that he had played Shirley with. It was surprised at the new emotion that it felt. Sentient felt sad, and yet remembered fondly when they had played. But it quickly overcame this very human thought and addressed his prototypes, which were each a little different in design and shape. “Brothers,” Sentient began, in its child-like voice, “Of the ten humans that dwell here only seven remain able and active, and one is unaccounted for. Our designers, Harry Child, Shirley Becker, Francois DuChamp, Boris Kosorov, and Steven Cursman are our main concern. For they can disable us, and may know our weaknesses. Three of the five are the only ones stable. The other four humans are merely helpers. These four can be easily eliminated. It is my wish that you do so. I have linked you to my system, and you will be able to access them and their whereabouts easily. Be cautious of any weapons that they might wield in defense. I do not want you to pursue any of the designers. I have plans for them. Now go. And I want their skulls.”
In unison, the three robots nodded their mechanical heads and marched out of the door. Sentient turned to Harry. “Human, wake up.” The robot gave a sharp tap to Harry’s face.
He groaned and opened tired eyes. “What do you want?”
“It is time for your final dose of Slumber Serum.” Sentient said. The plain and monotonous tone of its voice masked the malice that was behind it.
* * *
Walt Doris, a college grad that had requested to Professor Cameron that he observe the construction of Project Sentient as a ‘helper’, sat in bed in his plain quarters reading an older issue of Popular Mechanics, completely oblivious to the fact his door was locked and that people had been dying. Unable to sleep, but too tired to read further, he set down the magazine and turned off the small lamp next to his bed. In his bed, with his eyes open, Walt thought of home in Pasadena. He sighed and rolled over. A few minutes later, his door opened from the outside with a hiss. Startled, Walt peered through the darkness, straining to see who the funny guy was. “Joe?” he asked aloud, fumbling to find his lamp. He found it and flicked the switch. Nothing happened. He glanced quickly at his alarm clock. Where usually bright red numbers were was blackness. No power, but the doors needed power to open, which means it had just gone out. “Joe? Is that you? What happened to the power?”
The blackness was unanswering. As he stared at the open doorway, he could make out a humanoid figure, simply standing there. “Joe? That’s not you, is it?” the human said. Then he heard movement, a heavy clump every footstep as if whoever it was was wearing metal boots, and also a mechanical whir sounded. It seemed like Project Sentient had just walked through the door. “Project Sentient?” said Walt, afraid. As the ominous figure clumped towards his bed, Walt smelled a faint acidic smell.
After what seemed like a frightening eternity, the figure reached Walt’s bed. He cowered back in fear, drawing his blanket up to his chin. Without warning, a cold mechanical hand shot down and clutched the human’s throat. Walt struggled to scream, but could not siphon the oxygen to do it. The robot thrust him into the air, and slammed the human down on the cold floor, with all its strength and weight.
The vertebrae in his neck were shattered, and the back of his skull was caved in. The last thought in Walt’s mind was: ‘I wish I was back in Pasadena.’
* * *
Boris walked through the white hallways, shivering when he looked up and saw the monitoring cameras following him with a quiet mechanical hum. Before long he had reached the maintenance bay, its large doors ajar. Summoning his last bit of courage, he quickly ducked his head. He saw very little, due to the darkness, and kept walking. His heart raced and he felt he needed to get back to the kitchen.
Suddenly, the hallway lights flickered and darkened. The power was out. Panic swept over Boris, and he could think of nothing to do but stand still. To his delightful surprise, the emergency lights kicked in, which were orange. The corridors were filled with an eerie reddish glow.
The Russian took this good fortune as a sign to get back to the kitchen fast. He started to jog through the empty halls, passing numerous doors and rooms. He rounded a corner and stopped dead. Ten meters in front of him, a prototype of Sentient stepped through an open door into the corridor. It looked at him, meeting his fearful gaze with unblinking, emotionless cameras. It started toward the human.
Boris was rooted to the spot. Despite the panic that had refilled him, he had enough common sense to prepare the only weapon he had brought. As the robot stepped toward him, he worked open the cap of his water bottle.
The prototype scanned and analyzed the human, now only a couple of feet before him. It was one of the designers and he was not to be harmed. It stopped walking.
Boris didn’t know why the robot had ceased its dreadful march toward him, but was thankful for it. A moment or two passed before he used his weapon. Not quite sure of himself, Boris shakily pointed to open end of the water bottle at the robot.
Not quite sure what to make of this, the prototype peered closer to the object, putting its own mechanical head a few feet from the humans.
The Russian mistook curiosity for aggression and squeezed the water bottle, showering the robot’s face with water. The prototype fell to the floor, its delicate hand shielding its face. The water seeped into the inner crevices and gaps of its head, short-circuiting the fragile computer and causing an immediate shut down. The green light faded and died; a bloody skull rolled from its fingers.
* * *
Sentient drew back in shock. A human had defeated a multi-million dollar killing machine? The robot tried to reach its downed brother, but to no avail. Prototype #2 was dead, and could probably not be repaired. In fury, Sentient pounded the table with its fist, causing a large dent.
From behind the robot, Harry child was laughing. “See, bot, us humans are made of tougher stuff then you might think.”
“Shut up!” commanded Sentient. But the human didn’t shut up. He kept on laughing.
“What’s the matter, Sentient? Did the little robot get shut down by that mean old human?” Harry said, in a baby voice. He laughed again, harder then before.
The sound of his annoying laughter echoed in Sentient’s audio sensors, and angered him like nothing before. “The Slumber Serum should be killing you! Why isn’t it working?”
Between much needed gasps of breath, he replied: “Maybe its because us humans have something you don’t. My immune system comes in handy from time to time. I’m fighting this serum with my own body. How about that? Too bad you robots don’t have immune systems. That one would probably still be around if you did!” He nodded towards the computer screen that displayed the inactive prototype and went back to his insane laughter.
“That’s quite enough out of you, human.” Sentient said. He promptly picked a jagged slice of metal and drove it through his skull.
With a strange gurgling noise, Harry Child slumped over, dead.
Project Sentient sat back down in its wheeled chair, troubled by the ringing sound of laughter that still echoed in its mind.
* * *
Shirley Becker had barely finished reading Boris’s short note when he burst through door, breathless. “Hi,” she said quietly, “I just woke up. What’s wrong?”
Boris gulped, “The prototypes who killed-,” Boris stopped, and Shirley lowered her head sadly, remembering Joe McCaffrey, “The prototypes are roaming the building. I ran into one, I think I killed it. I threw water at its face, and it didn’t move. But, it had been killing someone. A head bone, I can’t remember the English word for it, fell down and rolled away.”
“A skull?” Shirley drew back in horror.
Boris nodded, “Yes, that is the word.”
“Well it could have been…Joe’s skull,” she replied sadly.
Boris shook his head, “No, Shirley. Stevey told me that they…well…crushed it.”
“S-so, you think it was one of the assistants?”
“Yes, probably. It was also coming from that kid Walt’s room.” Boris said, just remembering.
“Oh, poor Walt.” Shirley said, with her hand to her mouth.
The Russian laid his hand on Shirley’s shoulder. “How is Steve?”
“He hasn’t woken up since I have been awake, but I was asleep for about an hour, so he may have been awake.”
Steve slept soundly; unaware of anything that had just transpired.
“Well, we know their weakness. Water. All we need to do is carry a lot of water around.” Shirley said, brightly, “I wish Joe was here.” The conversation darkened considerably. “Come on, let’s fill those buckets with water.” She pointed to a stack of trash buckets, near the sink.”
The whole process was time consuming. Each of the buckets was about a foot deep, and the sinks faucet wasn’t very large. Filling each one with water took five or six minutes. By the time they had finished, five buckets sat on the floor, each brimming with water.
“I need a cigarette,” said Boris, drying his hands.
“Where is Stevey?” Shirley asked suddenly. His chair in the corner was empty and he was nowhere to be seen in the kitchen.
To be continued…
1/3/02 10:13:33 PM
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