It was an empty world, as long as you ignored DC8-88 and the other destruction class model 8s. Most people did. Or, at least, most people did when there had still been people around. Now it was just them, the last inhabitants of a planet fated for destruction.
The idea was that once a world’s natural resources had been exhausted, the people would move on to the next one, leaving behind only the DC8s. The DC8s would scour the planet and systematically destroy anything made by the people – buildings, crafts, even toys and knick-knacks. By the time they were done, the only thing left would be dust – dust and the DC8s.
Of course, as the DC8s were also made by the people, their final task, after reducing everything else to their component atoms, was to turn their weapons on each other. One last DC8, the sole survivor, would then perform one last sweep, making sure absolutely no evidence remained of the society that once lived there – and then that last DC-8 would self-destruct, leaving the planet forever dead.
The people had designed the DC8s to appear human, with each one slightly different. The DC8s didn’t know why, but in their eyes it wasn’t anything they needed answered. It would only distract from their task.
“DC8-88.” The voice, like all of the voices remaining on the planet, was clipped and even. “Status report.”
Triple Eight looked up from the device she was halfway through disintegrating – some sort of wheeled contraption, big enough to contain several of the DC8s comfortably and done up in a pleasing yellow color. Above her, standing on a mound of collapsed concrete, was the closest thing her squad had to a captain – DC8-56. Though there was no rank system to speak of, Five Six had nevertheless taken it upon herself to police the rest of them, making sure that nobody slacked off or did their job incorrectly.
It never occurred to any of them to wonder why there would be any variance in how they did their jobs, given that they were all the same model.
Triple Eight remembered after a moment to give Five Six a salute – two fingers, touched lightly to the left temple. Five Six insisted on it. “Task proceeding on schedule,” Triple Eight said. “No abnormalities to report.”
“Very good.” Five Six turned to leave, jumping into the air and staying aloft with the standard-issue antigrav modules installed in the feet. “Once you have finished this sector, assist DC8-92. She collapsed a structure on top of herself and may require assistance.”
“Understood.” There was only one type of assistance Nine Two would need, Triple Eight knew. Nine Two wasn’t a friend – friends were immaterial to the job – but she had worked with Triple Eight more often than anyone else in the squad. Triple Eight felt a twinge inside her. She performed a quick self-diagnostic, and when it failed to turn up anything out of the ordinary, she put it out of her mind. She finished the destruction of the vehicle and took to the air.
Air flight was discouraged as a general rule. Their internal power sources were hardy, certainly, but it was still frowned upon to use more energy than was necessary. More than one DC8 had, in the past, used their power recklessly and burnt out before completing their task – and with no way to recharge, the rest of their squad would be forced to pick up their slack after carrying out the standard destruction of the offending DC8. Triple Eight only used her antigrav when she needed to carry out Five Six’s special orders, which were mercifully infrequent, but it hadn’t escaped her notice how often Five Six herself flew. It worried Triple Eight, but it wasn’t her place to comment.
Nine Two’s demolition site was easy to find – three sectors north and four sectors east, for an overall distance of five sectors at a bearing of 30 degrees east-northeast. An anemic distress signal emanated from the ruins of a steel and concrete structure, and Triple Eight immediately understood why – the distress signals, last-ditch tools only for emergencies, burnt through power quickly. Nine Two must have been trapped even longer than any of them knew.
Triple Eight landed and began clearing away the rubble. It would have to be demolished eventually, but her task at the moment was to find Nine Two. The signal became slightly more powerful as Triple Eight proceeded until eventually she found her: a DC8 crushed underneath a slab of concrete. Triple Eight couldn’t see how Nine Two was even still functioning – most of her chassis had been broken, with exposed wires and mechanisms sparking and leaking fluids. The only parts of her that remained undamaged were one arm, grasping out weakly from under the slab, and half of her head – and even then, the other half had already been caved in.
“DC8-88,” Nine Two said, her voice wavering through different pitches and speeds. “You answered my signal.”
Triple Eight knelt down next to her. She knew what would have to happen, but that twinge inside her had come back. “Yes, I have. Be still.”
In a voice thick with static, Nine Two said, “I am glad it was you who came.” It was the last thing she said before Triple Eight fired a pulse from her weapon, disabling Nine Two’s systems permanently. It was standard procedure for DC8s who became injured and unable to continue their task, but still, something about it seemed… wrong to Triple Eight. She had never heard any of them say anything about being glad, and somehow it made the twinge worse. Another self-diagnostic confirmed what the earlier one had said: there was nothing out of the ordinary with her.
Triple Eight began the demolition. The rubble itself went first, leaving the area clear for her to destroy the body of Nine Two, but something gave her pause. She again crouched down next to the head. They, all of them, wore special HMDs over their right eye – attachments that showed them useful information about the world around them. Triple Eight removed her own HMD and replaced it with the one Nine Two had been wearing.
“Power restored. Greetings, Nine Two,” flashed a message across the tiny screen.
Even after destroying the rest of the body and flying back to her sector, Triple Eight couldn’t figure out what drove her to keep the HMD. That twinge was still there, but seeing Nine Two’s name in the HMD made it hurt a little less.
Hours turned to days and days to weeks as they made their way inexorably across the planet, leaving only dust in their wake. Their numbers steadily dwindled as DC-8s ran out of power or got damaged, and Five Six, perhaps sensing her vague unease at doing so, assigned Triple Eight to destroy the body every time. Triple Eight, for her part, took something from each of her fallen comrades – a memory chip here, a replacement shielding unit there – until there was less of her in her than there was everyone else. It quickly became routine, faster than Triple Eight noticed; the idea that the rest of her team was with her in some way helped soothe the twinge inside her.
Every so often, Triple Eight thought about what she was doing. She knew, logically, that she ought to have been worried about her habit – nobody else had ever done anything similar. DC8s that acted outside the bounds of their jobs tended to get destroyed. The thought, though, of losing all of her… teammates? squad members? that were with her now – that thought got close to physical pain. And so the habit continued, as worried as Triple Eight got.
Eventually, though, it became just the two of them: Triple Eight and Five Six. If Five Six had noticed anything unusual about Triple Eight’s enhancements, she didn’t say anything – after all, no matter what else, Triple Eight had still been doing her job. The two of them were in the air, en route to the sector where they’d first landed on the planet – all remnants of the people that built them had been scrubbed from the face of the planet, and so their mission was almost complete.
Five Six faltered, then fell from the sky.
Triple Eight immediately dove after her. A notification on her – on Nine Two’s – HMD lit up, highlighting the soles of Five Six’s feet, where the antigrav modules were. “Module Failure,” it read. Five Six hit the ground before Triple Eight could catch up, the impact shattering whole swathes of her chassis. Sparks flew across her body, keeping Triple Eight from getting close.
“Fuel reserves low,” Five Six muttered through a grimace. “DC8-88. You know what must be done.”
Triple Eight didn’t respond. The twinge was stronger now, keeping her from moving.
“Do your job, DC8-88,” Five Six said, louder this time. Static crept in behind her words as her voice processor began to give way.
“I…”
The moment of hesitation was enough to push Five Six into handling matters herself. With one weak, trembling hand, she pressed her weapon to her temple, a cruel mockery of the salutes she’d forced everyone else into giving her.
Then, she fired.
Even though Five Six shot herself, leaving herself inoperable, Triple Eight felt the shot inside her just as sharply as if she were the target. She stood over Five Six’s still body, watching, unable to force herself into motion.
When she finally found herself able to move, Triple Eight repeated the now-familiar ritual: she knelt by the body, took Five Six’s weapon, and installed it in place of her own. She knew what her task from here was. She would need to complete one last sweep of the planet then, before her power ran out, she would have to self-destruct, taking all of her… partners with her.
Triple Eight jumped into the air, then paused. Could there be another way to complete her task? She was the only one left. Maybe she could… She looked towards the sky. She could trace the faint trails left by the craft that had dropped them there. If she left the planet and searched for them, there would be nobody left on the planet. It would still be dead.
Triple Eight launched into the sky, going as high as she could. She didn’t know how long her energy would hold out, but she intended to make it count.
Jocelyn P. Blair 