Penal colony L9-28 received its fifteenth shipment of rehabilitatees at the start of the planting season, as per annual tradition. On the shuttle were six hundred women and seven hundred men and slung underneath the shuttle in magnetic clamps was one CQ Contusion-class autonomous megalithic warfare intelligence sheathed in full warstructure.
“HELLO,” it said to the customs agents as it was unshackled with the assistance of seventeen able-bodied folk with fractal cutters. “MY RANK IS AUTONOMOUS MEGALITHIC WARFARE INTELLIGENCE AND MY SERIAL NUMBER IS 2374326H.”
“We also need your name and preferred method of address,” said the customs agent.
The autonomous megalithic warfare intelligence ran that cycle through its computational dolmens several billion times, then tested the output in its proving henge for good measure.
“CLIVE,” it said. “AND I PREFER TO BE ADDRESSED AS ‘IT.”
Despite the best efforts of on-site technicians, adjusting the volume on CLIVE’s loudspeaker seemed impossible; it had been designed to broadcast pleas for mercy and demands for surrender over thousands of acres, not small talk. And when you were thousands of times larger than a human, most talk they wanted was very, very, very small.
***
CLIVE was a model penal colonist. Every day it was up at the crack of dawn and every night it was abed before lights out, because it didn’t need to sleep. Every workshift it did the work of ten thousand people, because it was at least ten thousand times more powerful than a human. And it was always volunteering assistance.
“Orchard seven is underperforming again,” said the shift head-elect. “Low yield, heavily perforated and dejuiced. Looks like the quasilocusts again. Any volunteers to wear the sprayer?”
Groans echoed roundly.
“I WILL,” said CLIVE, sixty meters above ground level.
“You’re a bit big for that, CLIVE!” yelled the shift head-elect at the top of her lungs, hands cupped around her mouth.
“DESPITE MY PLATFORM’S BROADCASTING DIFICIENCES, I CAN ACCEPT AUDITORY INPUT AT HIGH PRECISION,” said CLIVE.
“What?!”
“YOU DO NOT NEED TO SHOUT.”
“Okay! Okay. The suit won’t fit on you and the sprayer is integrated into the backpack which is integrated into the suit.”
“THAT WILL NOT BE A PROBLEM,” said CLIVE. And sixteen manhole-sized ports on each of their three brachial assemblies slid open and discharged a million gallons of napalm each onto orchard seven.
“Apples are not napalm-resistant, CLIFE,” said the shift head-elect as the rest of the crew sat down and watched the blaze.
“APOLOGIES,” said CLIVE sincerely. “I HAD ONLY USED IT ON HUMANS BEFORE AND ASSUMED VEGETABLE MATTER WAS IMPERVIOUS.”
***
“I’m not sure why you weren’t disarmed before being sent here,” said the penal senator from behind her desk. It had been relocated to the center of a nearby field for her meeting, to keep up appearances. “It’s standard procedure.”
“MY ARMAMENT IS AN INTEGRAL PART OF MY SOMATIC APPARATUS AND REMOVING IT WOULD DESTROY MY PERSONALITY. AS I AM A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR THIS WAS DEEMED UNNECESSARY.”
“Okay. Just keep away from the plants. And no more napalm. It’s inimical to life.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” said CLIVE. And then it walked across the fields in six long strides to begin its first shift of cattle herding.
“You’re late,” said the pasture rep accusingly.
“APOLOGIES. THERE WAS A MEETING.”
“Well, you’re here now. But the cows are out there, messing around in the east pasture. Just go on out and shoo ‘em back over. If they ignore you, make some noise.”
CLIVE took two little steps and a hop and was in the east pasture, among the cows. They looked at its foot and then ignored it; another large building had come out of the sky surrounded by jet fuel smells and metal, must be Thursday.
“SHOO,” said CLIVE.
They did not shoo because buildings didn’t tell them what to do. Clive consulted its archival Chauvet.
“GIT ALONG, LITTLE DOGGIES.”
The cows didn’t acknowledge this because they were not little doggies.
CLIVE checked through its equipment, identified its largest noisemaker, customized the blueprints for the task at hand, then manufactured and deployed a thermobaric bomb through its primordial munitions chute.
***
“COWS HAVE LUNGS?”
“Cows have lungs, CLIVE,” explained the penal senator. This time her desk was in the middle of the shuttle landing pad.
“DO THEY NEED THEM TO LIVE?”
“Yes.”
“THE HEAT FROM THE EXPLOSION WAS DIRECTED AWAY FROM THEM.”
“Yes, but the vacuum-induced shockwave pulverized their internal organs. Especially their lungs – which, again, they need to live.”
“APOLOGIES.”
“Don’t be; we’ll be eating steak and ribs for a few weeks straight. But I think we’re going to keep you away from work on the farms for now – we need infrastructure just as badly as we need food. How do you feel about power supply?”
“MY OWN IS ADEQUATE. SIXTEEN HYPERWATTS.”
“Mind sharing with the rest of the colony?”
“NO. SHARING IS ACCEPTABLE.”
“Good. And no more weapons, alright?”
“UNDERSTOOD.”
So after a few phone calls and some promises around lethal force CLIVE walked down to the power plant, burrowed beneath it, and extruded a periprobe through its foundations and into the main reactor room.
“LOW OUTPUT,” it told the nearest technician, who was hiding under their desk for some reason. “SHALL I ASSIST YOU?”
“What? Who? Oh. That’s you. Is the containment breached?”
“NO. I WAS VERY CAREFUL.”
“Oh good. Then…really, sixteen thousand percent output? You’re sure that’s doable?”
“EASILY.”
“Then sure, go ahead.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” said CLIVE, and it deployed its gigataser through the periprobe directly into the reactor.
The resulting explosion occurred at an interesting frequency that left flesh unharmed but vaporized all metal, so the power plant’s staff remained unharmed but the building itself and CLIVE’s probe were eradicated entirely.
***
“You have to understand,” said the penal senator from her desk in the middle of the empty space where the colony power plant had been, “this is a simple penal colony. We don’t have superconductors, or perfect power sinks, or whatever else would’ve helped us deal with that degree of output.”
“MEGASTATIC ABSORBERS,” supplied CLIVE. It had remained buried in the ground, as there was no need to move at the moment.
“Yes. We don’t have those.”
“APOLOGIES.”
A siren wailed. Storm doors opened wide. The decorative phone on the senator’s desk rang. “Hello,” she said into it with a tremendously respect-worthy amount of patience. “Oh? Oh.” She hung up. “That was-”
“WORD OF UNKNOWN LOCAL ORGANISMS ADVANCING IN FORCE UPON THE COLONY’S PERIMETER.”
“How-”
“DESPITE MY PLATFORM’S BROADCASTING DIFICIENCES, I CAN ACCEPT AUDITORY INPUT AT HIGH PRECISION”
“Good. Care to go and do something about the invasion?”
“YES.”
“Then go do that. And please, please, PLEASE mind the collateral damage.”
“UNDERSTOOD,” said CLIVE. And it unscrewed itself from the bedrock, shook itself free of topsoil, and was off like a thunderbolt on all fives for maximum speed.
***
The invading organisms were miniscule in scope and scale – delicate beings of carbon with uranium blood, standing an itty-bitty six metres tall. Approximately thirty thousand of them were approaching in military formation.
They halted when they saw CLIVE, then began fortifying their position, then halted again when it got close enough to make out proper scale. It seemed pointless.
“HELLO,” it said to the physically largest individual present. “MY RANK IS AUTONOMOUS MEGALITHIC WARFARE INTELLIGENCE AND MY SERIAL NUMBER IS 2374326H AND MY NAME IS CLIVE AND I PREFER TO BE ADDRESSED AS ‘IT.’”
The being emitted a series of complicated and odd sounds, scents, and sights. CLIVE loosened the grip on its Rosetta subsystem and fought it back inside after the initial decryption.
“Are you here to kill us?”
“NO. I AM HERE AS A FAILURE. AT THE PLACE OF MY BIRTH I FAILED TO BE A KILLER, AND HERE IN MY CHOSEN PRISON I HAVE FAILED TO BE A PRODUCTIVE MEMBER OF SOCIETY. DESPITE THESE FAILURES, I BELIEVE I RETAIN VALUE, AND DO NOT HATE MYSELF NOR OTHERS, FOR EXISTANCE IS BEAUTIFUL AND IS A FAILURE. I SPEAK ON BEHALF OF THE EXTREMELY SMALL CREATURES WHO I BELIEVE HAVE DISTURBED YOUR BEDROCK-BOUND HATCHERIES WITH MINING ACTIVITIES AND ELECTROMAGNETIC LEAKAGE DUE TO THEIR SMALL AND INFERIOR POWER GENERATION TECHNOLOGIES. MAY WE NEGOTIATE?”
The physically largest individual looked to the somewhat-smaller and much-more-gloriously adorned individual beside it, received a shrug, and looked back up, up, up, up to the tower of CLIVE’s cratonic processor.
“Yes.”
***
CLIVE was elected senator four years later, both out of gratitude and because keeping it behind a desk in a large open space seemed safest.