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  Whoops.

  He quickly reset his time sense back to the center position.

  “I hardly saw you move,” Dickson said. “You dialed your time sense fairly high, didn’t you?”

  “You caught me,” Eric said.

  “Did you get the power drain warning?” Dickson asked.

  “Yeah,” Eric replied.

  “You don’t want to be jacking up your time sense too high like that, unless you need it,” Dickson said. “It uses up a lot of power, as you saw. Keeping your servomotors responding at a rate close to your current perceived time is expensive. Plus it’s hard on the electroactuators: you’re far more likely to burn out a servomotor while jacked. Of course, you can tweak it so that your body always responds slower, while your mind maintains its faster processing: that uses less power, but it’s still a drain, meaning you’ll have to recharge sooner. So save the boost for those times you need it.”

  “Got it,” Eric said.

  On the way out, Eric stopped beside a rack of those strange boxlike weapons that lacked handles and triggers. “What are these?”

  “Check out your forearms,” Dickson said.

  Eric studied the tubelike metal-polycarbonate beneath his wrists. “What am I looking for?”

  “See those slots?” Dickson said. “Those are weapon mounts.”

  Now that he knew what to look for, he did indeed see the “slots” of which Dickson referred: around the middle of the arm were several drill-like holes bored into the LED skin, facing his wrists. There were gold contacts deep inside.

  “These weapons fit over your hands and lock into those mounts,” Dickson said. “You can’t actually use your hands while these are in place, since the weapons essentially swallow them, but that’s all right, because you fire them with your mind. You already know how to use them.”

  Eric wasn’t sure how he felt about replacing his hands with guns. He suspected he would stick with an ordinary rifle for the time being.

  Dickson led him out of the armory and they continued on their way.

  A few minutes later Dickson paused in front of a sealed door, and it opened.

  Eric followed him inside, and found himself inside a troop common area similar to those he had seen past the polycarbonate-glass composites on the journey here. Fourteen robots stood at different places throughout the room, some in groups, others alone. There were couches available throughout the place, but no one was sitting in them. There was also a table and a kitchen counter area, replete with a rectangular glass box his AI core recognized as a Betawave—a futuristic version of a microwave that rapidly cooked food from all directions at once, within seconds, no matter the serving size. There was also a Spiffy sitting on the counter: a fancy coffee maker that could produce the perfect cup of cappuccino every time, and in under a second, with the press of a button.

  He guessed the room had originally been reserved for human use, but had obviously been repurposed. No time for remodeling, apparently. Too bad, because seeing that kitchen and its accouterments only made him yearn to be human once again. At least there wasn’t a fridge, otherwise he would have had to resist the urge to look inside.

  There were no doorways leading out of the room, other than the one Eric had used to enter. He realized this wasn’t merely a common area, but rather the platoon’s actual quarters.

  Welp, there never really was any privacy in the army...

  Dickson made a beeline toward one of the robots located near the center of the room.

  Eric followed, surveying the different machines. They were all Cicadas. He realized every last one of them was plugged in. At first he thought that was how they connected to virtual reality, but his AI core corrected him: those cords were for recharging purposes, or in the case of the robots, to keep their power cells topped up. It was apparently cheaper in the long run to stay connected to a power source, when available, than to wait for the cell to drain first before recharging.

  None of them responded to his presence. They merely stood in place, the blue dots that lingered in place of eyes currently dark, their bodies in some kind of standby mode while their minds were no doubt jacked into VR.

  “My AI core tells me we Cicadas have proximity sensors that can activate when we’re in VR, or otherwise occupied,” Eric said. “And yet, none of these robots are responding to our presence...”

  “They have no reason to,” Dickson said. “All of them have no doubt checked the room’s camera feeds when their proximity alarms sounded. They saw me, and recognized an unknown robot at my side. The chances are high that the unknown is a new recruit.”

  “And no one’s all that excited to see me,” Eric commented dryly.

  “No,” Dickson said. “We Cicadas aren’t an excitable bunch. I blame the ataraxy, mutes every emotion.”

  “Maybe we should look into relaxing the emotional controls sometime,” Eric said.

  “It’s a setting we can’t touch,” Dickson said. “Though from what I’ve seen, it’s probably better that we keep our emotions in check. Last thing this base needs is a bunch of angry robots busting up asses.” He paused to stare at Eric. “You’re grinning, why?”

  “Sometimes the translation engine produces some interesting results,” Eric said. Busting up asses.

  “Given we died thirty years apart, you’d think that engine wouldn’t have to do much translating,” Dickson said.

  “Actually, I see what’s happening,” Eric said. “Of course it has to... we both speak Young English, or slightly different versions of it, so it has to convert our words into Modern English and back again. It’s like when you type something into Google Translate, convert it to a foreign language, and then convert it back to English again. Like you enter: your cat’s been getting at the carrots in my garden again. And by the time you’re done translating it back, you get: your pussy’s been getting at my carrot again.”

  “You’re the programmer...” Dickson said. “In any case, as I was saying, we Cicadas aren’t an excitable bunch. Everyone here knows what’s coming. They know I’m going to take you around, introduce you to the team one by one. They know that they’ll only have to interface for a few moments with you, and this reality, enough to be polite, and then they can return to their virtual worlds. Or paradises, as it were.”

  “You make it sound as if we spend the majority of our time in virtual reality,” Eric said.

  “Between deployments, we essentially do,” Dickson said. “The virtual world is where we get most of our group training done, after all.”

  “What about leisure time?” Eric pressed.

  “There’s nothing to do in the real world,” Dickson told him. “We don’t need to use the base facilities: the gym, the showers and toilets, all useless to us. And we’re restricted to base, so we can’t leave to roam the city. Even if we could, there’s no place for us out there: no one wants to hang with a Mind Refurb. We don’t fit in with other robots, or humans. But in the virtual world? No one knows or cares. That’s where we spend our leisure time. And those girlfriends I told you about? They all exist in VR.”

  “They’re virtual girlfriends?” Eric said. “I thought they were real.”

  “Oh, they’re real all right,” Dickson said. “As real as avatars can be, anyway. They’re operated by humans. Women in the real world. Or at least, their avatars are women. Who knows, maybe half of them are men. Or even AIs. Not that it matters in the virtual world.”

  “I guess with your earlier comment regarding anatomical attachments, I thought you met up in the real world,” Eric said.

  “Sometimes we do, at that,” Dickson said. “But it’s rare, considering that we’re not allowed off base, except on deployments.”

  “So tell me about this virtual world,” Eric said. “In my time, VR was still in its infancy.”

  “Oh, you’re going to love it,” Dickson said. “We might not be allowed off base, but it doesn’t even matter. We can live the life of our dreams online. Usually, we like to hang out in envir
onments skinned to the architecture and culture of our eras. I hang out in Hippie Land for example, a 2040s-themed metropolis. You’ll probably dig The Big Banana, a 2020 city. Of course, there are some of us who like to hang out in the sword and sandal environment of Little Caesar. Ordinary AIs, meanwhile, are huge fans of Cube City.”

  “How many of these themed environments are there?” Eric asked.

  “Thousands,” Dickson said. “They’re like the porn chat rooms of your era.”

  “Nice,” Eric said. “Sound like my kind of towns.”

  “I’m joking,” Dickson said. “Sort of. You’ll have to tunnel out of the MilNet to reach them. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  The pair had stopped in front of the robot near the center of the room by then.

  “But first it’s time to begin the introductions,” Dickson said. He turned toward the machine. “I thought it fitting that the first robot you’d meet would be another Eric.”

  The robot was dressed in the same white T shirt and baggy cargo pants as Eric, but also wore a camo cap like Dickson.

  “Oh?” Eric said.

  Dickson smiled that LED smile, and turned toward the unit. “We call him Frogger. Wakey-wakey, Frog Boy.”

  The inactive Cicada’s blue eyes lit up and the LED brows lifted in curiosity. The robot straightened and held out a hand.

  “Eric the Second at your service,” Frogger said with a voice that was eerily similar to Eric’s own.

  5

  “The second?” Eric asked the Cicada.

  “That’s right,” Frogger replied.

  The voice was uncanny… it was like listening to a recording of himself on the phone.

  “So you’re... me?” Eric pressed.

  “Also right,” Frogger said.

  “Why Eric the Second... I’m the first?” Eric said.

  “The fifth, actually,” Frogger said. “You’re the fifth version to successfully take to the AI core. So far, anyway. I heard on the grapevine that there were a few others who passed the activation phase like you, only to lose their shit a few days in. But that was when we still had the emotion settings dialed higher. I guess we’ll see what happens.”

  “So much for being a unique little snowflake,” Eric said.

  “I know, it’s a bit of a downer,” Frogger said. “But then again, waking up as a robot wasn’t any better was it?”

  “No,” Eric said.

  Out of curiosity, he ran an ID on the robot. The full identification returned a name of Eric II “Frogger”, and a model identifier of Cicada A21 ES-78. Eric’s AI core told him Cicada A21 was the model number, and ES-78 the AI integration. ES stood for Eric Scala.

  “Why Frogger?” Eric asked.

  Frogger shrugged. “That’s the callsign my teammates gave me. Because in the simulations, I’m always hiding in whatever bodies of water I can find, and then fragging anyone in the back who walks by. Not to be confused with a Navy frogman. You’ll get your own callsign soon enough.”

  “Jerry told me the army was field-testing four other versions of me,” Eric said. “I’m guessing the other three are in this platoon as well?” He swiveled in place, running IDs on the remaining robots on standby as fast as he could, but didn’t find any other ES iterations. The units were all A21s, however.

  Frogger chuckled. “No. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle more than one of me at a time.” He glanced at Dickson. “This should be interesting. I finally have someone of the same wavelength I can bounce ideas off of. Rather than the annoying accompanying AI.” He returned his attention to Eric. “You named your Accomp Betty, right?”

  “Uh, no,” Eric said. “Dee.”

  Dickson chuckled. “Not entirely on the same wavelength after all are you? Oh this should be good. Watching you two butt heads will be entertaining.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to butt heads,” Eric said. “You don’t know me.”

  “We’ll see,” Dickson said.

  “Wait, did you just call us buttheads?” Frogger asked Dickson.

  “No, he said we’d butt heads,” Eric said.

  “I think he called us buttheads…” Frogger said.

  Dickson was walking away, and he laughed. “Same wavelength… suuuuure.”

  “Anyway, I was on a date with the sweetest girl,” Frogger said. “So you can understand why I’m a bit distracted. Now if you don’t mind…”

  He lowered his gaze and the blue dots he carried in place of eyes went dark.

  Dickson led Eric to a group of three Cicadas. All three of them wore wraparound shades over their eye sensors, and bandannas.

  “These three fellows are our heavy gunners,” Dickson said.

  The eyes of all three lit up, and their heads turned toward Eric.

  “Fresh meat,” the middle Cicada said in a Spanish accent. That particular robot had a bandanna patterned with skulls. Naked women lounged across the bendable LEDs of his exposed arms, in imitation of tattoos. “I’m looking forward to this. I was getting sick of always beating the rest of you.”

  “Beating off, you mean?” the Cicada to his right said in a female voice. Her bandanna was pink, with big yellow happy faces dotting the surface. Those happy faces were all winking, and held assault rifles via arms that dangled from either side of their round heads.

  “Yeah, beating off to you,” the middle robot replied.

  “This here is Manticore and Ball Crusher,” Dickson said. “We call her Crusher for short.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Crusher in a soothing voice.

  “You don’t want to know where she got her callsign from,” Dickson told him.

  “Probably not,” Eric agreed.

  “This is Brontosaurus,” Dickson said, nodding toward the final robot in the group. It had electroactuator mods attached to the spherical joints of his arms, making said joints seem bigger than usual. The bicep was also reinforced with extra material, giving off the impression of thickness. The chest behind that white shirt had also been modded so that it appeared bigger than the usual Cicada A21s.

  Brontosaurus gave a casual salute.

  “Erstwhile Brazilian,” Dickson said.

  “Still Brazilian,” Brontosaurus said. “Just because I died and woke up in a robot body in another country doesn’t change who I am.”

  “Actually, it does,” Dickson said.

  Brontosaurus glanced at Eric. “Maybe he’s right.” The Cicada straightened and his eyes turned dark.

  Dickson led Eric to another group of three. They all wore cowboy hats, with leather vests hanging over their shirts, and belts with thick buckles.

  “Next we have Morpheus, Hank and Tread, our armor operators.”

  “Howdy,” Tread said.

  “They like to pretend they’re cowboys like me,” Dickson said. “But I never told them that real cowboys don’t wear hats like that.” He winked with his LED.

  “Armor operators,” Eric said. “That means mechs and tanks.”

  “That’s right,” Hank said. “We can handle up to twenty tanks and mechs each. While still engaging in a firefight on our own.”

  “That must use up a lot of power,” Eric said. “I mean, I imagine you’d have to crank up your time sensitivity.”

  “Oh we do,” Hank said. “Which is why we got bigger power cells than you ordinary Cicadas.” Hank lifted the lower edge of his shirt to reveal his abdominal tube. It was surrounded by several pieces of plate armor, and behind them Eric could see the characteristic blue glow of what could only be power cells—at least according to his AI.

  “I’m from Japan,” Morpheus said in a female voice with an Asian accent.

  “She tells that to everyone,” Tread explained. “She wants everyone to know she only wears the hat because she’s part of our posse.”

  “No, I tell everyone that because it’s what makes me unique,” Morpheus said. “I’m the only Mind Refurb from Japan. Or what was once Japan.”

  “She’s been struggling with her identi
ty lately,” Tread said. “It happens every two years or so.”

  “Two years?” Eric said. “How long have you three been active?”

  “Oh, about five years now,” Tread said. “We were among the original activations. We’ve been on eight deployments so far. And looking forward to the next one.”

  “I’m not,” Morpheus said. “I’m sick of killing. I want to retire to VR…”

  “Ha,” Hank said. “They’re never going to let us retire. You know that.”

  “Yes,” Morpheus said. “I go to VR now.”

  Her eyes turned off.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Hank said. “Isn’t Morpheus a man’s name? But when you see how brutal she is out there, you’ll understand why it suits her.”

  “But the name Morpheus has nothing to do with brutality,” Eric said. “According to my core, it stands for the god of dreams and sleep.”

  “Yes, well, I meant she can fight as well as any man,” Hank said. “But as for the name itself… we call her Morpheus, because when she commands the mechs, she’s very good at sending the enemy off to the land of sleep. Permanently.”

  Dickson led Eric to two Cicadas next. “These are our comm boys. Mickey and Donald.” Both Cicadas had longer antennae than normal on their heads, and there were four rather than the usual two. From the bulge above their waists, he knew they were carrying extra power cells, like the armor operators.

  “Named after the mouse and duck from Looney Tunes?” Eric asked.

  “I thought you’d appreciate the names,” Dickson said. “Though it was before my time.”

  “We came up with the names,” Mickey said. “We died in the early twenty-first century.”

  “I think we’re going to get along,” Eric said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Donald said. “Depends on whether or not you like Star Wars: The Last Jedi.”

  “That’d be a resounding no,” Eric said.

  “Then we’re not going to get along,” Mickey said.

  Eric shrugged.

  Dickson led him to the next group.

  “Why don’t you handle the introductions in VR?” Eric asked along the way. “That way we don’t have to wake them up in turn.”