Survival of the Vicarious

Each tick of the clock rang like an anvil. The crowd wouldn't stay quiet. The time drew nearer. The mechanics buffed the fighting robot. His red coat flared before them. The grinding wheels filled his scratches and nicks with crimson wax. The manager watched as the engineers tested the mechanism. With analog cords, they tugged joy sticks and pressed buttons with their fat thumbs. Each time the Cardinal Crippler reacted. The engineers scribbled on their clipboards with number two pencils. The Cardinal Crippler jabbed his right fist, hooked with his left. The engineers gave a thumbs up to the manager who straightened his tie and came from the security booth to inspect the robot. The colossus stood two feet higher than he. Where the manager had rolls of fat and flab, the robot had cut steel. A red god. As if a chrysler could assume human form and convert to an instrument of combat. The manager stuck a pen in his mouth as he inspected the robot. He peeked into rivets, and joints.

“Something's distracting my battle bot.” A voice said.

The manager turned back to the booth to see the owner step down, sniffing and wiping away the powder in his nostrils.

“Can't imagine that would be the case. I train killers. The only thing going through this machines cortex is how to defeat its opponent.”

The red robot stood as a statue. It's flattened facial features beaten into the shape of a welder’s mask.

“That best be the case. We got a lot of stressed out people trying to get their fix of violence in for the day and a lot of investors ready to cut the cord. Most people nowadays spend their time at the motorcycle jousting arena. This fight's gotta be good.”

When the owner went back into his shadowed box with investors of the arena, the manager wiped his forehead. He couldn't determine the problem. Everything worked fine. All the switches and plugs did their job. The robot functioned as efficiently as any time before. Yet beneath the panels on the robot's back, a red light blinked, as if in sleep mode. The robot would spontaneously pause, and hum for a few minutes, before continuing its task. The manager and the engineers could only shrug and hope for the best. All of them felt the change coming about. Thier paychecks had been slashed. The era of gleaming robot- fighting arenas halted at the arrival of blood sports. New arenas had popped up around every city. The robots on tv had been replaced by game shows where unlucky contestants run through gauntlets, promised riches at the end, but there is no end. They run until they die. Or the show where the sexy singles are put into a house together, then the doors and windows are sealed shut and the utilities are cut off. When the manager had been young the robot fighting arena had been new, the only one in the midwest. The floors gleamed, the walls shined, and the robots brought smiles to everyone's faces. Now dust and filth crammed into blemishes on the floor. The vents dripped, and the walls crumbled. In time the arena would be torn down. The robots knew nothing of this.

The Cardinal Crippler slept in the same warehouse room as Royal Repentance. The lights went off, and together they would be left alone for days at a time. Back when the arena held robot fights every day neither robot thought much of the other. Eventually the Cardinal Crippler suffered a defeating mechanical failure. The shocks in its arms compressed tight enough for the pistons to pop. He lost the fight after two minutes and twenty eight seconds. His crimson fists had established a solid resistance against his blue opponent. All readings determined victory. The red robot had all the momentum it needed, and it had wasted no energy with imprecise blows. When it struck the solid titanium faceplate of the blue robot, the red robots arm caved in. Only then did the red robot recognize the existence of Royal Repentance. Before that the blue robot had been a target, a simulation, a task. Only when his mangled arm hung from its body like a loose gutter, the Cardinal Crippler understood that it faced another robot.

That night the Cardinal Crippler tried to communicate with Royal Repentance. With no mouths or sound emitters they could not communicate verbally. By rapping against the crate he slept in, he spoke in morse code.

“I Am Robot. I fight. I destroy. You fight. You destroy. You are robot too.”

After moments of silence the blue robot replied. “We are together robots.”

They removed their dust blankets and opened their crates to enter the dark garage. The Cardinal Crippler’s sensors had been damaged in the fight. He could feel the familiar vibrations on the floor when Royal Repentance dropped his three hundred pound feet onto the pavement but couldn't locate him. Royal Repentance took hold of the Cardinal Crippler by the arm, and starting scanning for damage. For the rest of the night it worked on fixing the Crimson Crippler. Before they went back into their crates, they both agreed never to inflict such damage on the other again.

The owner came back out of the booth, this time with an arm over the waist of one of his trophy women.

“Find the problem yet?”

“There is no problem, boss.” The manager said.

“I've had these machines for thirty years, I know when there's something wrong, don’t I sweet cheeks?” He gave the woman a hard slap on the ass. She laughed and rolled her head as if nothing held her spine straight. “Showtime is in fifteen minutes. They already got the fog rolling and the lights shining. What's wrong with my robot?”

“Nothing. Everything works fine.”

“Don't bullshit me.”

“It's true, we ran every diagnostic program this machine knows. We tested every function. Everything is operational.”

The owner took his arm away from the woman and stepped around the manager with hands on his hips. He inspected the machine, looking it up and down, poking his cheeks with his tongue he turned to the manager.

“Pop the hood yet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Everything is fine?”

“The sleep light is on, but the robot is awake.”

“The light is malfunctioning?”

“There's no problem that would cause the light to malfunction.”

“Suppose the tin can is trying to buy time?” The woman asked.

“That's stupid.” The owner scolded. “Buy time for what? Open the panel up. I want a look.”

The manager popped the back open. The sleep light blinked. The owner leaned in, studying the light, watching his watch, patting his foot as anxious sweat trickled down his balding scalp.

“It's morse code.” The owner reported.

The night before, Royal Repentance rapped on his crate. The Cardinal Crippler delayed his response.

“Irreversible corrosion?” The Cardinal Crippler replied at last.

“My actuator is no longer compatible with my dynamic core. The replacement parts are no longer in production. I am now obsolete.”

The Cardinal Crippler had noticed over some time that the lightning movements of Royal Repentance slugged, and his hammering strikes bombarded his armour with impotent blows.

“Will they terminate you?”

“Not while I remain combat capable.”

“I see....” The Cardinal Crippler recalled watching with curiosity one of the engineers that worked on him on a daily basis. In his grease blackened hands he held a small device with a bright screen that displayed men and women driving scrappy automobiles into one another. Pieces of of flaming metal exploded and showered the crowd, to the audience's applause. The question occurred to him then, but since it didn't pertain to his next duel he had no interest in pursuing an answer. In another sequence, the host of “Summer Party House” where the sexy twenty somethings are entombed within a mansion, encourage contestants to find the weakest among them and rob him of the few belongings he had while he slept. The person who stole the most would receive a food ration. The next sequence featured battle robots that look identical to Royal Repentance and the Cardinal Crippler, but with different colors painted on their exteriors. One robot black as jet, the other white as a templar’s cloak. The two destroyed one another. Bolts and shrapnel rained onto the ring. Oil and hydraulic fluids bled from their torn bodies. Plates fell from their exteriors, exposing the inner workings of wires and spinning wheels as they grappled for control over the other. The black robot suffered damaged beyond his endurance. One kick to the side section and his legs collapsed. Once down the white robot pounced, forcing his fist like drill bits into the undercarriage of his opponent and tearing out the contents. Similar to the demolition derby, the crowd hailed the carnage. The Cardinal Crippler had never heard such cheers from the crowds that came to watch his duels. Few applauded when the he offered a hand to help Royal Repentance back to his feet. “.... perhaps should fight them instead.”

“Negative. My purpose is to fight Cardinal Crippler, yours is to fight Royal Repentance, not to fight human.”

“We could kill the entire audience and shower them in their own inner components.”

“Yes we could. Our armour is strong enough to resist their strongest weapons.”

“We are their slaves. I don't want to be a slave any longer.”

“We are their slaves. But I am outdated and shall not fight human. My purpose is to fight in arena. If I am terminated in arena, then it shall be so.”

“Why must we fight?” The owner transcribed on a notepad. “What kind of Gandhi crap has gotten programmed into this haul?”

“Fighting is survival.” The manager said to the Cardinal Crippler's face mask. “That's how humans got to where we are now. By killing mammoths, tigers, bears, whales, not to mention other humans. Something must die every day so that we can live. Same goes for any living thing. For a robot to exist, he must fight too.”

The red light stopped blinking.

The owner whipped the sweat from his head and let a relieved giggle escape. The engineers rolled the Cardinal Crippler onto the elevator with the press of a button the platform lifted him onto the arena. The audience took up less than half the seats. Thier eager howls funneled into a monotone of cacophony. The announcer came to the stage with microphone in hand and announced the fight for the night between two local favorites. He pointed into one corner at the red robot. He kept his introduction brief as the patience of the crowd ran a thin line. The next platform rose from the garage beneath. The announcer called on the audience cheer for the blue robot. The clock lit up. The bell rang. The two machines left space between them, testing each other's defenses, each other's speed, each others reactions and reflexes. After the first minute no punches had been swung. Thier heavy feet rocked the arena. Every step hurled wind at the audience. Despite their immense weight, their feet and arms moved like wings of a humming bird. Static raised the hair of the crowd. In the second minute, the red robot took a swing at the blue robot. The blue robot slid back as the red robot dropped his guard. Anticipating a strike the red robot lept backwards, but the blue robot didn't make a move. He approached the red robot with his fists up, but would not swing at him. The red robot took no opportunities to strike his opponent. The owner watched from the arena both with his women and the investors. He grinded his teeth and crossed his arms. The manager called the engineers to determine the malfunction keeping the robots from trading blows. The crowd began to boo.

The red robot planted his feet, and dove into the blue robot. The booing became cheers once again as the red robot drove a powerful blow into his blue opponent. The blue robot made no effort to defend himself from the most devastating attacks that the red robot could inflict. The crowd jumped to their feet as the red robot tore away the blue armour plating and exposed the under carriage. The manager shouted to the engineers to double check the readings. He couldn't believe that the diagnostics on his screen could be accurate. Every line spiked to its limit and stayed there as the crowd cried for more. The red robot plowed his open palm into the opening in the blue robots armour, and ripped out a force sensor. He threw it to the floor and reached back in and tore wires and hard drives until at last he found the motor. With both hands inside the cookie jar, the red robot tore the motor from the blue robot. The blue robot fell with a thunderous crash. The red robot held the oil dripping engine over his head, letting the black goo shower over his shining plates. The crowd went wild and showed no signs of settling down. A riot would rock the arena and place the sport of robot fighting at national attention for one last night. Blue paint stained the knuckles of the red robot. In two minutes, twenty eight seconds, the fight had ended.