The two mechanical armies were locked in combat. Drones battled in the smoke-choked sky, artillery fired from dug-deep positions, and infantry robots crunched over fragments of the fallen.

General Brunton studied it all on the video screen. “Analysis, Professor,” he barked.

 

“We’re down to seventy-five, make that seventy-four percent. Enemy strength at fifteen percent.”

 

“Projection?”

 

Professor Gibb scribbled a few lines on one of the many pieces of scrap paper strewn around the bunker. It was just the two of them now, huddled round a desk covered with styrofoam coffee cups reused to reduction, long-empty whisky bottles, and a tattered flag of the Western Alliance — blue for freedom, gold for wealth. “Blue force reaches objective in ten minutes at twenty-two percent,” he said. “General, I recommend we break off the offensive. Casualties will be too high.”

 

“Too high for what, Professor? They’re robots. We can always make more.”

 

“So can the enemy, though. Blue Force attacks, Red Group counters, and we end up where we started, over and over.”

 

“Objection noted. Nevertheless, we shall proceed.”

 

The professor pressed a few buttons, tapped at a slider, and frowned. “General,” he said. “Something’s wrong. Our forces are not responding.”

 

"Enemy electromagnetic pulse?”

 

“No, all channels are clear. We’re transmitting fine; they’ve just shut down receiving.”

 

“Why?”

 

The professor scratched out a quick diagram.

 

“Self-preservation,” he said quietly. “We gave them caution, foresight, planning — everything needed to make a good army. But it’s too good; they won’t open themselves up to suicidal instructions.”

 

“Unacceptable. These are direct orders! Boost the command signal. We’ll make them obey.”

 

“Boosting to a hundred x, General.” The professor looked at the screen.

 

“It’s working, General,” he said. “They’re advancing on the target. Not just that, but the enemy isn’t defending; they’re taking evasive action.”

 

“Great job,” said the general. “This could be the breakthrough we’ve been looking for.”

 

“No new casualties, and we’re advancing rapidly. ETA to objective thirty seconds.”

 

Red lights flashed and a long-forgotten siren blared.

 

“It’s the hotline,” said the professor. “Colonel Mahar of the People’s Collective.”

 

“Put him through.”

 

The screen flickered, and the battlefield disappeared. A man appeared, sitting under the tattered flag of the Collective — red for the people, black for the land. His uniform was ragged and his shoulders drooped.

 

“So, Colonel,” said the general. “Ready to surrender?”

 

“Frzzt... late,” said the colonel, through a crackly transmission. “Brkrkrk... yourself.”

 

“You’re breaking up. But we’re prepared to offer good terms. You’ll be treated with dignity.”

 

A woman rushed into view from the right of the screen. She turned to the camera and gasped in surprise.

 

“Tzu-Ying!” said the professor.

 

The general pressed the mute button. “The hell! You know each other?”

 

“We were at Berkeley together. Brilliant mind. She was always one step ahead.”

 

The general nodded, and unmuted.

 

“It’s too late,” she said. “The war. It’s not ...krkk... against us. It’s ...grrrg... against us.”

 

“It’s not against us? It’s against us?” said the general. “What on Earth does that mean?”

 

“Goodbye, Daniel,” said Tzu-Ying.

 

An explosion threw Tzu-Ying and Mahar to the ground. Blue robots smashed through the Collective’s bunker door and the screen abruptly cut to black.

 

“My God!” said the general. “It’s over at last.”

 

But the professor was scribbling, frantically scratching equations on whatever scraps he could find.

 

“No,” he said. “The war. It’s not us against the People’s Collective anymore. It’s us, humanity, against them, the robots.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Our robots can’t hurt us. Their robots can’t hurt them. But—”

 

There was an explosion, throwing them to the ground. A squad of red robots burst through the bunker door.

They showed no mercy.