The Eyes of the Killer Robot

The invisible voice called, "Klaatu barada nikto!"

The eyes did not move.

No part of the Killer Robot had moved in twenty-six years, two months, three days, one hour and thirteen minutes.

Databanks cataloged the words, time and date stamping them for future reference. Visual sensors swept the area, searching the park lawn without result. Secondary infrared imagers detailed the figure's height and general appearance. Terahertz scanners saw through the man's outer costume, highlighting the contents of his pockets, the structure of his bones, and the functioning of his internal organs. Processors gauged the operational frequency of his cloaking suit, calculated his mass, and pinpointed twenty-five target locations on his body. Long-term memory storage retrieved all known Enemy profiles for comparison. Logic subroutines predicted his actions and intent.

"That should have worked," the man whispered.

Olfactory sensors detected three different types of alcohol on his breath.

"Robot!" the man insisted, coming closer. "Klaatu barada nikto!"

The eyes of the Killer Robot did not waiver.

"Damn," the man muttered. "It worked on the robot in that vid I saw at the museum."

***

"Harold the Horrible!" the Creator screamed at Mighty Man.

Mighty Man sighed, his hands on the light blue spandex covering his muscular frame. "Mr. Finklestein, you are not a supervillain. You are a harmless, crackpot inventor. Besides creating a public nuisance of yourself with this Killer Robot business, you've never broken any law."

"I am a supervillain." the Creator insisted. "You'll see! My Robot is perfect—able to adapt and predict Enemy moves, equipped with micro-repair tools capable of extracting any atoms it needs to repair itself out of the air around it, and an advanced array of sensors and weapons the likes of which the Earth has never seen!"

The Creator threw the oversized switch on the wall. Electricity arced, coursing through the jumble of mad scientist's equipment lining the walls into what looked like a perfectly smooth, golden statue, over six feet tall.

The eyes of the Killer Robot illuminated briefly, cycling through their startup routine.

Mighty Man spun and braced himself for impact, waiting to see what would happen. "Mr. Finklestein, if that robot does anything hostile, you are going to jail."

The Creator smiled, "I'm Harold The Horrible, and the whole world will soon know my name. I'm tired of you superheroes and villains and your smug superiority, telling me I'm not one of you. We'll show them all. Robot, destroy every superhero that gets within a mile of this house."

White-hot disintegrator beams lashed out from the eyes of the Killer Robot. An instant later, the ashes of Mighty Man began to rain onto the floor.

The Creator cackled. "Yes!"

The window smashed in and three figures dressed in the black uniforms of the Exceptional League burst into the suburban garage of Harold Finklestein. Their ashes filled the air before the last one's foot touched the cement floor.

Outside, the roar of the League's jet transport shook the ground, covering the approach of two high-explosive missiles. The Creator saw them through the garage window.

"Robot," he said, "Number Two on those missiles and the jet."

The eyes of the Killer Robot glowed again. Around the incoming rockets and the aircraft, space folded in on itself and everything within the effect abruptly ceased to exist.

The Creator laughed maniacally. "Now, destroy every superhero and supervillan on this planet—other than me."

The Killer Robot launched into the air, through the roof of the garage.

***

Eight hours later, it landed in the same spot.

"Excellent!" The Creator shouted, watching simultaneously the six televisions set up on the shelves along the wall of his garage laboratory. "They've been evacuating the city almost since you left. By tomorrow, we'll have the entire place to ourselves! We'll live like kings, in a penthouse downtown."

"Wait," he said, staring at the graphics on the screens. "There's something not right. It looks like they're going to—"

***

The invisible man read the plaque next to him.

On this spot, more than ten centuries ago, the nations of the world detonated a nuclear device in an attempt to destroy the Killer Robot. While its unknown creator was terminated, the Robot was unharmed. Unfortunately, they did not realize that they were in no danger. The Robot only hunts persons with the A3339 gene mutation, commonly known as superheroes. Normal humans face no threat from it.

The last known appearance of the superhero gene was over three hundred years ago. The Robot has waited in this spot, never decaying in any way, since that fateful day.

This park is dedicated to the memory of those fallen heroes.

The invisible man gave a drunken snort. "Oh, yeah, Robot? You've been waiting for me. They call me The Magician because I can make things happen like magic. I am a superhero—"

The Killer Robot sampled the genetic material in the ash that fell to its feet. The A3339 factor was only 37%. It increased the strength of its mutagenic ray aimed at the nearest population center by .09%. Computational analysis indicated any higher would produce levels of birth defects and premature deaths high enough to cause the population to move out of range. Subroutines predicted no appearances of the gene for 137.657 years.

As the Robot prepared to wait the 4,344,124,543,000 milliseconds until it could be useful again, a micro seal failure warning reported in the Robot's right ocular display unit. Nanoserver motors lost containment of .0517 units of material. The glistening bead of lubrication escaped the outer seal and ran down its seamless gold cheek before tumbling to the ground where the last few atoms of its Creator remained.

The eyes of the Killer Robot cried.

It was a very long time to wait.

The invisible voice called, "Klaatu barada nikto!"

The Killer Robot did not move.

It had not moved in thirty-seven years, two months, three days, one hour and thirteen minutes.

Databanks cataloged the words, time and date stamping them for future reference. Visual sensors swept the area, searching the dark park lawn without result. Secondary infrared imagers detailed the figure’s height and general appearance. Terahertz scanners saw through the man’s outer costume, highlighting the contents of his pockets, the structure of his bones, and the functioning of his internal organs. Processors gauged the operational frequency of his cloaking suit, estimated his mass, and pinpointed twenty-five target locations on his body. Long-term memory storage retrieved all known Enemy profiles for comparison. Logic subroutines predicted his actions and intent.

"That should have worked," the man whispered.

Olfactory sensors detected three different types of alcohol on his breath.

"Robot!" the man insisted, coming closer. "Klaatu barada nikto!"

The eyes of the Killer Robot did not waiver.

"Damn," the man muttered. "It worked on that old movie."

Find more by N.J. Kailhofer in the Author Index.

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