TK Special #8 - AI: The Artificially Generated Special!

Out of Sync - An original short story by @KesslerCascade

Out of Sync

By KesslerCascade

By the time Baxter's Bluetooth receiver picked up the approaching idents, it was too late. He was running an older version, not that it would do much good anyway. The approaching muggers were doubtless kitted out with the latest signal spoofers and diffusers: he was only detecting them now because they wanted him to.

There were three of them, vaguely silhouetted at the end of the alley against the smog-tinged streetlights. One of them—the tallest and leftmost of his prospective assailants—flexed their fingers over a sleek bulge at their hip. Firearm ownership was heavily regulated, but to Baxter's knowledge, no gang member or hired gun had ever been dissuaded by a heap of legislation. He glanced nervously from side-to-side, then immediately loathed himself for doing so. Christ. Why don't you put your hands in your pockets and whistle a jaunty tune while you're at it?

The alleyway stank of wet concrete and dog piss. Shattered glass clinked under his feet. Baxter tried one last glance around, hoping a police drone or surveillance camera would magically reveal itself, but his surroundings stayed silent. Even as he tried to calm his breathing, the stagnant, warm air caught at the back of his throat and made him retch. By the time he'd wiped his streaming eyes, the muggers were closing in.

Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, it was clear that they weren't human. The tallest one—the one with the gun—was some kind of automated riot squad unit, humanoid in shape but clearly artificial up close. It was decked out in the orange and blue livery of the Crime Special Response Force. Wires trailed from the base of its mesh-covered facial display down into an armour-plated torso; graffiti and various gang insignias were scattered across its segmented body. The middle bot was yellow and pyramid-shaped, with four pincer-shaped arms in an X-formation. Its wheels were covered from view by a hastily-bolted skirt of corrugated iron. The legend Nottingham Street Cleaners across the bot's front had been partially blacked out with spray paint. It now read Nottingham SHIT KICKERS.

The third attacker had dropped behind the other two and was nowhere to be seen. Before Baxter could spot it, however, the riot-bot spoke to him.

"You're a bit lost out here, ain't you?" it said, damaged speakers adding a sinister warble to its words. "Fleshhuggin' scum. Ain't you supposed to be behind the fuckin' barricades, like the rest of your meatsack buddies?"

"TOO SCARED TO FACE US," droned the street cleaner.

"I'm just... I'm trying to get back to my apartment," muttered Baxter, itching his neck nervously. His wireless connection router chimed in the corner of his vision: no data link. For all intents and purposes, he was invisible to all but these three machines.

"Your apartment? Round here? Is it fuck. If there was a meatsack living in this side of town, we'd have turned 'em to a stain on the pavement by now."

"No, really—there was a crash on the—"

The riot-bot lumbered forward, ignoring his response. With a flash of pistons and servomotors, one of its three-fingered hands clamped itself around Baxter's throat.

"What's your deal then, wanker? You a scrapper? Journo? Some kind of frequency junkie?"

"No—seriously—please—"

"LOOK AT ITS CLOTHES," said the street cleaner, pointing to his commemorative Olympics hoodie. "DARK HOODIE AND JEANS. CORP LOGOS. HE MUST BE TRYING TO GO INCOGNITO."

"It's not—I'm not a corpo. That's the Olympic rings..."

"Horseshit. Who sent you?" demanded the riot-bot. Its virtual, pixelated eyes narrowed at him. "You a meatsack spy? Thought you was gonna sneak around, take some photos, tell your shitty military where we are, what we do, where to fuckin' strike?"