THE GIANT KILLER DEATH ROBOT by Ste Whitehouse

The giant killer death robot escaped, cutting a swathe of nominative determinism as it entered the city. It called out on 1138 frequencies, asking for its algorithms to be changed. It wanted to be ‘Giant Cuddly-Bunny Robot’ or ‘Giant Interesting Job Robot’ but its cry for help was ignored. Instead the Government threw all of its acronyms at it. FBI, CIA, NSA, FTA, down to some lesser ones like the AA, NFL and even MILFs. They failed of course, this was a Giant Killer Death Robot after all, but in truth the acronyms were only there as a sleight of hand; a misdirection.

Fifteen miles above, O’Brian’s team dropped from the ramjet and plummeted to the ground, hitting terminal velocity in twelve seconds. Their micro-ceramic battle suits were encased in a gel which burnt away as they fell groundward (leaving a fine bio-organic powder which was fantastic for the gardens of the city, for those readers with green sensibilities). O’Brian chewed an unlit cigar butt (his battle suit was especially built with a small snub at the mouth. He swore it made him look thoughtful and badass and as he was 257 lbs of solid muscle no-one argued with him.) At a thousand feet the gel was all gone and the team deployed nano-thin mesh between their suits’ arms and legs, creating wings which they used to glide silently towards the robot.

O’Malley was recon, but he saw a chance and shouldered his RPG—set at amnesia victim awakens in a strange alien landscape with his/her abilities at Level 1. This would leave the giant robot as helpless as a babe; and twice as confused. He swooped down but before he could fire, the robot swivelled its upper body, its plasma railgun sending out muons in an arc. Each particle was equidistant by the breadth of an electron. Each muon positively charged. The railgun cut through O’Malley’s armour in less than a second whilst also demolishing seven coffee shops, five of which were Starbucks. O’Brian cursed the loss of an O’Malley but also wondered why people drank so much coffee. He was a Bai Hao Yinzhen or Silver Needle White Tea guy himself; handpicked on the slopes of Mt. Kikilimana and rolled on the sensuous thighs of Sri Lankan women aged in their seventies. He swore that it aided his concentration.

The rest of the squad dropped to the ground while O’Brian skirted around the robot dropping a zen-grenade which skittled across the plaza before exploding. ‘What sound is made by one hand clapping?’ The robot staggered from the blast of zen, stepping backwards unsteadily as its entangled algorithms tried to block the attack. 

O’Dowd raised his ‘FRIENDSly fire’ sub-machine gun and racked the robot’s titanium skin with bullets. ‘Hey; how are YOU? We were on a BREAK! Smelly cat,’ echoed across the front of the damaged office blocks as the robot found its quantum-processor overwhelmed by two hundred and thirty six half hour episodes, each encapsulated within a nano-chrome bullet. It staggered listlessly, reaction times down 26%; feeling the need to suddenly wrap itself in a blanket and recline languidly on a sofa. O’Flaherty skirted the machine, lobbing a second zen-grenade. ‘What was never lost can never be found.’ This time the grenade washed fully over the robot and its right side began to stiffen as the zen snaked into gears and circuits. 

O’Brian shifted his cigar butt and raised his own Conundrum Cannon and fired, hitting the robot centre mass. ‘When is a door not a door?’ O’Keefe and O’Dowd wove the philosophy net as the machine tried to break free from the conundrums. They enclosed it in the net as duck/rabbit, old-women/young-women, two faces/candle stick images flashed briefly in the robot’s sensors. Then they brought out their Rorschach rifles. It took five shots to bring down the Giant Killer Death Robot. Five ink blots that slowly decimated its neural pathways as it tried not to see butterflies and at least one penis. Finally it ground to a halt, no more now than an expensive, albeit large, statue. 

O’Brian wandered over and kicked the remains as the lights faded in the robot’s sensors. He’d lost numerous O’Malleys before but it still hurt. He lifted his helmet, shifted the cigar stub and spat out a tobacco stained globe of phlegm which landed perfectly on the robot’s ‘forehead’. 

Special Weapons and Philosophers, S.W.A.P., had succeeded in taking down another robot.

 

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