Nobody asks where the dead, broken, mauled or tortured go. You have to care to ask questions like that.
Across the uneven expanse of bulky electrical and mechanical heaps, loud and harsh forma-bot death-wails fill the air. Like cicadas audiolising their presence, these expiring bots drone out in their final hour in various pitches and decibel levels – as programmed to do from generations ago.
In the vastness of these people-less debris heaps, the intended purpose of the Herbert-Read oscillations is lost entirely and simply becomes a collective cacophony of noise. The original intent of this sound is to notify owners, loved ones and friends in a meaningful way similar to a heart flatlining in a hospital that this robot is experiencing death and truly expiring versus the difference in a robot going offline, in need of repair, or other non-terminal states a forma-bot can endure. This is just one of the many legal provisions in place to dignify bots with human-like qualities.
However, these abandoned and discarded bots had their final hour stolen from them. Used for the spectacle of entertainment and sport.
The off-range waste zone rubbish pile is off limits and dangerous. But it’s here, you find all kinds of odds and ends. Mechanical, electrical, plastic and perishable. Most importantly, though, all the discarded robots and bot parts are here. Expensive bot parts for those that care. With huge chunks of working sections and if you’re lucky, they still have onboard processors with functioning code. That’s the best part – at least for Esprendo Tar Fet.
After countless trips to the waste zone, Rendo has longsense solved the anxiety producing and heart-wrenching experience of listening to the outcry of these bots. His salvaging experience is managed and mood optimized by a custom collection of low and mid-range electronic stems randomized to form a beautifully bearable soundscape over the cicada like death notes. Calming yet forward-moving, the audio helps hold Rendo in-tact from what would otherwise be an unbearable experience.
Waist high in junk, Rendo controls an oddly fashioned set of mech arms to hoist free what appears to be the upper torso section of a warrior class battle bot. Tall and lean, his mech assisted lifts are awkward due to poor footing but not particularly hard. Audio muffs over his ears provide a low rolling bass and synth drone overpowering the chorus of Herbert-Read oscillations calling out from the dying bots strewn about the waste zone. Delighted by the find, Rendo chuckles as he sees the entire rear access port still intact. Along with the port, Rendo can tell the upper control cabinet is free of damage. This may very well give him the missing components he’s been searching for over the last six months.
In the distance, high-speed transports shuttle toward the city, packed with passengers and carrier boxes full of retreating spectators and the few surviving fighter bots. Another full weekend of battle ending with some pointless bot victory feeding another wave of frenzied and satisfied spectators. Within a few hours, the mauled and destroyed bots and their mangled appendages will be unceremoniously scattered from low altitude heap-hauler drones, vomited from their undersides producing another blanket of parts and death-wails.A sickening cycle fueled by unrestricted consumption and overabundance.
Few people realize what Rendo knows about these waste zone rubbish piles. In 2317, long after the Harrison inflection crisis, there is little memory of how all major corporations were bond-funded and attached to the bot sustainability supply chain which drove the creation and distribution of comfort-grade and military-grade forma-bots and bot parts en masse. After many years of corporate maneuvering, mergers, and acquisitions, everything is neatly owned and orchestrated by AOSR including these sold out bot battles. No friction, just constant supply.
Now bots are just tools, toys, and things to own, use, and discard. It’s all pure indulgence. Wasteful. Insensitive. But as the expression goes, one person’s discard is another man’s regard – even if that man is only sixteen years old.
Grinding in the distance, Rendo’s XT17 tractor is slowly moving a large pile of crumpled metal and dirt. The XT17 runs slower than it should since Rendo rebuilt it with parts from several sdifferent generations of T-model tractors sourced from this very rubbish pile. Regardless, the XT17 gets the job done; and the hybrid comms system, parted from a swarming fighter bot, allows full console controls right at Rendo’s handheld.
“Hey T”, Rendo barks at the handheld as he looks up.
“Guess what I got over here?! A clean port and control cabinet, whoo!”
The T17 grinds on, but a brief message flashes on the handheld. “Good report”.
Rendo sighs, not enough excitement from his team on this.
“Hey DB, where you at? I got great news.”
His handheld flashes with an incoming voice call. “Yes, Rendo. Your first transmission was received.” An oddly human yet robot-like voice says in a gentle and measured tone.
“Shut up Duster, you big lunker, I have to tell you the good news too,”. he says excitedly waiting for the response.
“Proceed”, the large warrior class forma-robot replies with mock enthusiasm.
“Ok, so it looks like we have a warrior top half, control box, full data port, and probably all the logic boards intact. Plus several gyro-limbs and power lifts. And a lot of fresh metal.”
“This is good news Rendo” says Duster Blaster. “We will have a good haul and high probability of successful restoration on our three class C’s”.
//
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