---

Steadyboi After the Apocalypse

by Merc Fenn Wolfmoor

You trudge through another wasteland town, sticking to the narrow roads, trying not to make the potholes deeper or the dust clouds thicker, but it’s hard when you’re a hulking robot built for a war long gone. You sheared off your guns and dislocated your laser fuses, dumped your ammo stores in a bog, and snapped the various killing blades into nubs.

People don’t believe your painted chassis.

You spend a lot of your energy gleaned from solar panels on scrubbing mud and rust off so the English letters are legible. You don’t have a way to speak, and when you gesture with your blocky hands (made to crush and punch and smash) people think you’re violent. So you grind your slow, plodding way deeper into the wastes. You can’t help going through towns: your core programming guidance system overrules any detours. You were made to confront people, even if you don’t want to cause harm.

You’re a huge, heavy, metal monster. And since there aren’t any wars, you’re obsolete. You’d offer to let people take you apart—re-use your heat core (or your innards or your rivets or your exoskeleton or your optics or your pistons or your thick, steel-plated skin or your targeting system or your intelligence cortex) if it’d help make their lives easier—but everyone is too scared. People think you’ll self-destruct if captured. You won’t, because you fried that system feature once you got away from the army. You never saw combat so you want to be useful.

The world is trying to rebuild. You could help, but none of the people will let you.

Onward you trudge. Reports are that far, far into the northern ash plains, there are pits so deep that even a robot like you couldn’t climb out. The floods will wash silt and mud and char into the recesses, and you’ll shut down without any sunlight, and then no one has to be afraid.

(You’re not sure if you can be afraid for yourself yet. That’s categorized under self-defense protocols, and you also disabled those once you left the base. You don’t want to hurt anyone, not the way the makers intended.)

This town is just like the others: battered by heat-storms, half-empty from the plagues, straining to hold onto a shape and a purpose and a name. You grind your way down the only street wide enough for a twelve-foot, three-ton hulking war machine.

Your optics register infrared heat signatures in buildings and hidden behind rusted cars and barricaded junk. Population: seventy-five. You hesitate by a single stop light, all the glass shattered and the wire sagging in the middle. There’s a pair of leather shoes dangling next to the acid-crusted shell. It’s probably too high up for the civilians to access.

Carefully, you extend one hand and pluck the shoes between jointed fingers. You lay them down at the side of the road. Someone should be able to use the leather.

And someone does. An adolescent-model human stands on the sidewalk, staring at you. You look back. Their chassis is covered by a floral-pattern dress. They are barefoot and hold a cloth toy in skinny arms. Their hair follicles are curly and black, swept into a round helmet-like structure. Analysis: child, malnourished, unafraid, sad.

“You better get outta here,” the small human says. “Pa ain’t much fond of warbots.”

You cautiously point at your chest plate, where you scrubbed away the dirt so the letters are visible. The paint is chipping and you don’t have any resources to re-apply a chemical sealant.

NOT A THREAT
WANT PEACE
PLZ NO HARM

The small human shakes their head. The larger adult humans remain hidden from visual analysis.

You lower your arm, defeated, and take a step past the streetlight.

“Hey, wait!”

The small human has put the shoes on their feet, increasing their environmental protection status by several degrees, which you approve of. They run up to you, their fabric toy—analysis: lupine design, denim structure, cotton-filled; a wolf plushie—gripped in one hand. In the other hand, the small human holds up a singular piece of paper.

“It’s a sticker,” they say, peeling off the self-adhesive shape. “Was gonna save it but I reckon you need it more. Thanks muchly for my shoes back.”

The small human gestures for you to extend your hand. Cautiously, you lower your arm and offer the back of your blocky fist. The child presses the sticker against your metal and pats it. You examine the design: a humanoid exoskeleton painted red and gold, suspended in white clouds.

“It’s Iron Man,” the child says. “Pa says he was a good guy.”

Then an adult-model voice bellows from inside a store: “Rhiannon! Get away from that thing now!”

“Bye,” the small human says, and dashes away.

The adult-model catches them by an arm and yanks them inside the building. The infrared signals retreat.

You activate the movement for wave-non-lethal.exe in your memory banks and flex your fingers in an awkward claw.

No other people come out of hiding.

You rumble onwards, leaving town. Once you’re at the end of the last street, you rotate your wrist joint so the back of your hand faces your chassis. Easier to see the sticker and keep it safe from the weather that way.

---

There are no more Rhiannons in the towns you pass through, so you protect your Iron Man sticker as long as you can. It lasts a month before it peels away in a dust storm and you can’t catch it.

---

You walk into a gully that used to be a subway in a city that used to exist. No infrared signals anywhere for miles. Dry weeds and scrawny trees strain from the rubble. Radiation levels are still in the red for human survival. Your metal frame is designed to absorb the heat and repel the rads, so you don’t have to stop or detour this place.

You’ve got to be close to the ash plain pits. Maps loaded into your memory banks indicate that the terrain was devastated by nuclear backlash from the ruptured missile silos. Too bad your odometer was scrambled when you deactivated your targeting system. It’s hard to track milage by sight alone.

Still, your destination must be close. You’ve been traveling for thirteen weeks, six days, four hours and twenty-three minutes. Your average speed is five miles per hour in clear weather.

A signal hits your FM radio.

“This is restricted territory! No bots! Screw off!”

You hesitate. The high ruins of old cement architecture create a one-way path, and it has narrowed to a point difficult for you to pivot and retreat.

You send a short-wave radio burst with a pre-fabricated message.

[ ON-HOSTILE ON APPROACH. DO NOT ENGAGE. NON-HOSTILE SEEKS PASSAGE FOR PEACEFUL TRAVEL. VIOLENCE IS NOT REQUIRED. ]

“Declare your armament specs!”

[ NON-FUNCTIONAL. ]

There is a fifteen second delay.

“Okay, come in, slagbot.”

Cheered by the invitation, you plod forward. The tunnel opens up into a wide open space piled with heaps of scrap.

“Stop on the X and hold still.”

The sign is a ten meter pair of red-painted lines at an intersection of cleared cement. You stop as directed. A half dozen heat signatures pop up from shielding around the area.

Live humans are good. You wait for further instructions.

A hum of machinery alarms you, and a pair of turrets rise from behind a lead-plated wall.

You recognize the cannon barrels. Old G-X77 models, designed for taking out long-range missiles and aircraft. If it’s loaded with war-grade explosive heads, a single shot will rip you apart.

This isn’t how you wanted to deactivate. It’s so violent. You don’t want to be a war machine. You realize how much you don’t want to be blown apart like one, either.

You raise your hands in the surrender-pose.exe.

[ PLEASE DO NOT ATTACK. NON-HOSTILE WILL LEAVE PEACEFULLY. ]

A pair of adult-model humans wave EMP rifles from nearby the cannons. Their voices are high and register fear and hostility.

“Shoot it! Shoot it before it kills the rest of us!”

The cannons heat up. You don’t have enough shielding to deflect a shot this close, and you were built as a tank unit; you can’t easily dodge.

You deactivate your optics and mute your infrared scanner. It’s not going to stop you getting blown into scrap. It somehow hurts less when you don’t see it coming, though.

---

When you first came online, the world was already over. Nuclear spring clashed with the catastrophic climate degradation.

Your non-maker technician communicated with you via short-wave frequencies and text-based transmissions. Their name was Alicia McReedy. They called you Steadyboi. That was not an official designation for your make and model. You didn’t mind, though. You liked having a name.

“I’ve been making some adjustments,” Alicia McReedy told you. Sometimes they broadcasted through direct audio interface links so you heard their voice. This method was less efficient, since their vocalizations were often interrupted by ongoing respiratory failure. A cough, they said, and texted: I’ll be fine.

“It’s not really free will in the sense philosophers argue about,” Alicia McReedy said. “But what do they know? We’re just meat programmed with electric currents and anxiety.”

A cough, louder than before.

“Okay, so listen, Steadyboi. I’m overriding your obedience matrix and uploading a bunch of pacifist and community-support protocols which you can self-apply once reviewed. You’re the last one off the assembly line, buddy. Wish this had ended different for all of us, you know? Hell, I’m the last human standing in this place, too.”

They sighed.

“I’m not giving you orders. No point, heh. No war left to fight. Besides, I’m a scientist, not a soldier. Runs in my family. My daughter and husband were in different fields and… I’m gonna cry if I try to talk about them. Even with Kendra’s notes, it’s too late for me. I don’t honestly know if there’s anyone alive who can benefit from her findings, you know? I’m so proud of her.”

A long interruption, heightened with distress.

“So here’s the deal, pal. You go out there and you find yourself a purpose, okay? I’m giving you resources, and I’m hoping there’s someone left somewhere who’ll want to help you. Or you them. I don’t know.”

A heavy coughing fit.

Alicia McReedy switched to text input.

I may have lied about being fine. Sorry, buddy. But look. There’s nothing you can do for me; my lungs are shot, and all I can do for you is let you go and hope you’ll be okay out there. You’re a good bot, Steadyboi. Just remember you can choose who you are. All people do. Good luck. See you on the flip side, huh?

And then no more communications came from Alicia McReedy, though you waited and waited and waited.

---

You experience what your logs refer to as surprise when you come online again.

Infrared scans indicate three heat signatures. You activate your optics and scan your surroundings. An adult-model, an adolescent-model, and a canine-model quadruped known as a “dog.”

The smaller human is asleep against the dog’s side in one corner of the warehouse. Both their heart rates are steady.

“Hey, warbot. Remember me?”

Your optics scan the adult-model human. Their vocal register is deeper and their body has grown and widened. It is Rhiannon, who gave you the Iron Man sticker. Time must have passed; humans, you’ve learned, do not upgrade very fast.

You nod, neck joints grinding. Every part of you is stiff. Ball joints are rusted and your entire left arm is non-functional. The hydraulics in your legs are crusted in dirt. Even with all the damage from neglect and weather, you’re operational. You’re alive.

Rhiannon grins. “Been awhile. Steadyboi, right? I’ve been working on digging you out from the scrap heap. Thought I recognized your rig.” They pat your half-curled hand, right where the sticker used to go.

Tentatively, you ping Rhiannon with a short-burst message. [ YOU FIXED NON-HOSTILE STEADYBOI? ]

They twitch one shoulder, glancing at a thin tablet strapped to their wrist. “Kinda. It’s hard finding parts that work with your build.”

[ NON-HOSTILE THANKS HUMAN. ]

“Don’t thank me yet,” Rhiannon says. They grunt as they reach down and pick up a tool belt slotted with a mechanic’s equipment. “I don’t think you’ll ever be a top-notch warbot again. Those weapon mods? Fried beyond saving.”

[ STEADYBOI IS NON-HOSTILE. DO NO HARM. PEACEFUL. ]

“Wait… you wrecked your guns yourself?”

[ AFFIRMATIVE. ]

They cough. It makes them sound like Alicia McReedy and you have a concern. Are they going to malfunction too?

[ HUMAN IN NEED OF REPAIR? ]

Rhiannon waves a gloved hand. It looks like emotion-dismissive.exe, which one of Alicia McReedy’s assistants used often. “Don’t we all. I’ll be fine, Steadyboi.”

Internal alarms whir in your processors. Alicia McReedy was not fine. They shut down. You do not want Rhiannon to shut down.

They look up at you, frowning. “What’s the matter with you? Never heard of dust-lung before?”

[ HUMAN IS IN NEED OF REPAIR. ]

Rhiannon sighs, which leads to more coughing. “Yeah, yeah. You know, as a kid, I wished I was a bot. Felt like it’d be so much easier to just swap out some parts and get on with living, you know? But humans are just mush with a few bonier bits holding them together. We don’t even get exoskeletons.” They kick a rusted bucket, which collapses under their boot in a puff of dried flakes. “I’m not Iron Man.”

You run a search through your downloaded memory logs; you have the database nodes Alicia McReedy installed, though you have had no reason to index them before. All the information was tagged as biological-medical-enhancement.

There are no results for “Iron Man.”

“Look, you’re low on ion cells,” Rhiannon says. “And I don’t want you clunking around and waking up my brother or Todd.” They gesture at the smaller human and the dog-model. Both are now snoring. “Go into power-save mode. I’ve got some solar-panels to rig you with so you can recharge on your own when the sun comes back up. I’d have done it sooner but I can’t move you on my own.”

You run thumbs-up.exe and your joints crunch and creak. Your digits stiffen with the function only partially completed. Rhiannon winces.

“Stay still, yeah?”

Rhiannon turns and limps over to where the small human and Todd-dog are, then they lie down next to them. They give you a return thumbs-up.exe before curling up in their long leather coat.

The dilapidated warehouse is open on the south side, shielded from wind by a massive pile of rusting metal, broken auto parts, plastic furniture, and fried electronics. Everything is dust-caked. Inside, a battery-powered lantern illuminates Rhiannon and their brother and dog.

You power off your optics and turn all available energy reserves into core processor functionality. Your body is badly damaged, and you have less than a quarter hour of power cell consumption. It should be enough to look deeper into your memory banks. That activity requires no noise. You rotate your head so your scanners are directed at the warehouse opening in case of threats.

Then you search again in the info Alicia McReedy left you.

There is an entry for “lung,” the breathing apparatus installed in humans directly from infant-build. You once had an aerial gas dispenser to disable the lung function, before you broke all your weaponry protocols.

PROTOTYPE: LUNG REGENERATION THERAPY.

It has tags for cancer research, pneumonia, respiratory disease, and air pollution defense. You quickly scan the entry.

CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY.

Kendra Thomanson in the R&D sector was pioneering the serum for universal lung repair in the Ngo-Yu Medical Research and Technology Laboratory. The facility is listed as OBSOLETE. There is a note attached to the file’s meta data.

Hey Mom, I know I’m not supposed to bypass security protocols like this, but the lab is in lockdown after the first attacks, and this is the only way I can message you. So screw it. Yeah, I’m scared but I’ll be okay. Olivia is here; she snuck in just before the quarantine. You taught me to love science, and it’s gonna pay off. I’ve figured out the hiccup that was resulting in pleurisy in some cases.

Talk about timing, right? Bombs going off, the world ending, but hey, I found the cure for lung disease and at least my wife is beside me! Maybe when the chimpanzees evolve and take over, they’ll find a use for it, haha. Don’t blame me, you’re the one who showed me those movies at too young an age. ;)

Me, flippant in the face of disaster? I get it from you. I love you, Mom. Olivia sends her love too. Just want to make sure you know. All my notes are attached in the file “green bean casserole recipe.” Please try to stay safe. We’ll find somewhere to ride this out. See you on the other side of the apocalypse. <3

If you can find Kendra Thompson, or other human scientists like Alicia McReedy, you can give them this data.

Rhiannon does not need to shut down forever.

---

You come online again to sounds of respiratory distress.

Rhiannon doubles over, coughing. Todd-dog makes distressed sounds and licks their face. The child-human, Parker, stares up at you. They do not talk.

“I hate this,” Rhiannon says, their voice modulated low. “Pa got taken by the dust-lung and I’m all we got left. New Gilgamesh is five hundred fricking miles away. Last broadcast said they weren’t be sending out more search parties. Too much of a resource drain. Folks gotta come there.”

Parker wraps their arms around themself and rocks back and forth on their heels. Todd-dog lays down on their toes, head on Rhiannon’s leg.

Hydraulic fluid leaks from Rhiannon’s optics. “I told Pa I’d take care of Parker and I… I…” They cough heavily again. “Iron Man could’ve saved us, but I’m not even close. He could’ve flown us all the way to safety.”

You do not want Rhiannon to shut down. If there is a broadcast by other humans, you should be able to intercept it. You set your unstable tuner to autoscan for messages and survey the warehouse.

The structure was built up over the giant X you were shot on. Makeshift walls of sheet metal and plastic are pasted over I-beams and skeletal rafters. Junk is everywhere; you notice the end of one cannon barrel was repurposed as a support near one corner. You look away.

A radio signal squiggles within your search range, and you copy it immediately to long-term storage.

This is New Gilgamesh. We are a safe harbor for any survivors. If you receive this message, we urge you to come to the following coordinates. A GPS string follows. We have shelter, food, medicine, and clean air. We are a peaceful cooperative of scientists and farmers and believe everyone can contribute to a new world. We welcome everyone. Together, we survive. Come home.

It is four-hundred-sixteen miles southwest.

You ping Rhiannon. [ NON-HOSTILE WILL ASSIST. DELIVER HUMANS AND DOG TO SANCTUARY FOR REPAIRS. ]

They raise their head, blinking away fluids. “Hey, man, you might be a walking tank, but that ain’t doing us no good.”

You are not supposed to counter human input, but you were also supposed to destroy things, not save them. You are large enough to carry two humans and a dog.

You begin dragging yourself towards the exterior, where your batteries can fully recharge.

---

It takes you thirteen hours of careful labor to construct the wagon.

You salvage a bus frame and bend scrap metal into makeshift wheel treads; you find old chain and pipe and weld the harness to your non-functional arm with a repurposed plasma cannon in your wrist. You are not made for finesse.

The wagon is half again as long as you are tall, blocky and full of holes. Once they see what you’re doing, Parker assists you by piling the inside with fiber materials for impact reduction.

Parker doesn’t use their built-in vocal processor; that is okay, since you don’t have one, either. Parker is much more agile and skilled than you, and they understand on an intuitive level how to help.

You find a plastic window mostly intact and mount it on the front of the wagon to minimize dust kickback into the interior.

Rhiannon stands in the warehouse opening, clutching their tool belt and staring at the vehicle. “You made that?”

You carefully run thumbs-up.exe; you’ve slowed down your reactions so it doesn’t look aggressive. Parker mimics you with both hands. You’re very proud of them.

“Wow,” Rhiannon says. “Are you… gonna take us to New Gilgamesh?”

You nod once. Parker found some grease and climbed on you while you took short breaks to let the solar cells recharge, and they lubricated your rough joints so you have better articulation.

Parker slaps their leg with one hand, summoning Todd-dog, and together they climb into the wagon. The dog runs excitement-tail.exe, which you determine is positive.

Slowly, Rhiannon limps over and pulls themself into the wagon. You pivot, gathering up the harness, and pull.

---

The wagon creaks rhythmically behind you as you trudge along the long-abandoned roads.

Two days later, the silhouette of New Gilgamesh looms before you. The sky is overcast, but your batteries are still at fifty-percent. You’ve moved at a steady pace to conserve energy. The broadcast washes over you and you stop a quarter mile from the gates.

You don’t know if there are G-X77 cannons mounted by the entrance. You don’t want to be shot again. Rhiannon might not be able to fix you.

“What’s the matter, Steadyboi?”

You’ve sent Kendra Thompson’s lung regen files to Rhiannon’s tablet, so they have the backup in case you get destroyed. You point at your non-functional arm.

Rhiannon frowns, shielding their eyes as they peer up at you. Parker hugs Todd-dog and waits.

How do you explain being scared? The painted messages on your chassis have eroded during the time you were shut down.

You look like a warbot.

[ NON-HOSTILE. DOES NOT WISH FOR DESTRUCTION. ]

Rhiannon limps over to you, reaches up, and pats your hand. “No one’s gonna scrap you, Steadyboi. I’ll protect you.” They hold onto your arm. “Like Iron Man would.”

Parker nods. Todd-dog barks.

With your humans on either side of you and Todd-dog trotting along beside Parker, you lumber forward, still dragging the wagon.

“Hey!” Rhiannon cups their hands around their mouth to project their voice. “We come seeking sanctuary! Don’t shoot our bot. He’s friendly.”

You broadcast a hesitant message. [ HUMAN NEEDS LUNG REPAIR. DATA ATTACHED. ]

You send Kendra Thompson’s files.

The gates swing open and four adult-model humans rush out; they carry plastic boxes with MEDICAL printed on the sides. You stay motionless. You’ve gotten Rhiannon and Parker and Todd-dog here. As long as they are safe, well, it won’t be so bad if the cost is you getting scrapped again.

An adult-model human in a white lab coat like Alicia McReedy once wore marches out as the medics inspect Rhiannon and Parker. “How did you get my files?”

You don’t dare move, with so many humans clustered around you.

The human in the white coat types on a tablet, and the text message pings you.

I’m Kendra. I helped found this place as a sanctuary. Did you know my mom?

You send back: [ NON-HOSTILE WAS MADE BY ALICIA MCREEDY. ]

Wow. I never thought any of her bots survived.

[ CAN HUMAN RHIANNON BE REPAIRED? ]

Kendra Thompson nods. They smile at Rhiannon and Parker and Todd-dog. “We’ve dedicated a lot of resources to the lab. My treatment works for dust-lung. You’ll be okay, friends.”

To you, Kendra Thompson says, “You rescued these people and brought them here safely. Not an easy feat these days.”

You scan the area, nervous that cannons will rise from the walls.

[ STEADYBOI HAS NEW PURPOSE. HELP HUMANS. ]

“Come on in, Steadyboi,” Kendra Thompson says. “I think we could find a job for you. My mom would be proud. You’re built tough. How do you feel about helping us find other survivors and bringing them home?”

Parker hops up and down, nodding. Rhiannon has a mask over their nose and mouth, an air canister feeding them oxygen. The medical humans wave everyone towards the gates.

Kendra Thompson watches you, waiting.

You get to choose who you are.

[ STEADYBOI WILL HELP. ]

And you run thumbs-up.exe.

---

Host Commentary

And that was “Steadyboi After the Apocalypse” by Merc Wolfmoor

This is a story about change, but within certain boundaries. While Steadyboi was unable to change its path to take a detour away from humans, it was able to break its tools of destruction. While it has minimal ways to communicate, it gets the most important messages across.

And it just occurred to me. If the people in the early camps didn’t believe Steadyboi was peaceful, does that mean they were used to machines lying?

I love it when a short story gives me a peek into a much larger world. Now I want to know all about these clever, lying machines that no one can trust. And what happens when you make a machine that lies? Can you ever trust it again?

I guess you can say the same for humans.

Anyway, I am known around Escape Pod compound as a hater of second person POV and present tense, but not because they’re bad; it’s because they’re tools that are hard to use. And stories like Steadyboi prove that you can do an excellent job with both of these storytelling tools, and also makes the other editors laugh at me. So I will say it here-Steadyboi is a definite outlier.

Escape Pod is a production of Escape Artists Inc., and is distributed on a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license. Share it, but don’t change it or charge for it. All other rights are reserved by our authors.

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As always, thank you for supporting our mission to bring free and accessible speculative audio fiction to a global audience. We have been able to do this for 20 years thanks to you.

Our music is by permission of Daikaiju. You can hear more from them at daikaiju.org.

That was our show for this week. Our quote comes from Margaret Mead: “Never believe that a few caring people can’t change the world. For, indeed, that’s all who ever have.”

We’ll see you next week more audio fiction! Till then, stay safe, and stay kind.