X7000's Roboparty

He was just a C-type android in need of a tuneup, and sometimes that bothered him. But not today; on a day like today he could forget what he was and just sense the sun on his face plate and the wind in his antennas. Factory voicebox or no, that robot knew how to sing.

The Android in the Red Convertible

I went to Montmartre because I wanted to feel like an artist, and I wasn't disappointed. The place was full of them: artists and thieves. The thieves charged thirty Euros for a caricature, and the artists lifted your wallet after you'd paid. They glided through the crowds, bumping and pocketing and apologizing and moving on. When he shoved by me, then, my first reaction was to clamp my hands to my pockets, spinning and trying to face him. He was already gone, running faster than I've seen anyone move, threading through tourists without looking back. The military was there seconds later, helicopters and bullhorns honking "PLEASE REMAIN CALM." I heard a single shot, and the man went down in a shower of sparks. The crowd was screaming and scattering by now, and I could see him up and running again and--this is the weird part--I could swear he was carrying his own head, out in front of him. Carrying it with both hands. And that's the last I saw of him. I never read about it in the papers, but it could have been there; my French isn't very good, after all.

The Montmartre Incident

Dearest Charlotte: Of course it's not an actual time machine. That would be ridiculous, would it not? Time machines exist in one place, and that's in the fertile imagination of the public. What I have created could more precisely be called a Temporal Influencer (at the moment, I call it the Suggestron, but I am open to (haha!) suggestions). Modern physics tells us that every event is just a matter of probability, does it not? Well then, if one desires an outcome, one must simply influence factors in favor of that result! Men have always known some small ways to do this, but the Suggestron does it more effectively! It's amazing, really, what simple brute force will accomplish. And now, I must return to my experiments. Give your mother and sisters my love. Yours always, A.M.

Concerto #2 for Piano and Time Machine

The people returned, eventually, as people always do. They planted their crops where the ground wasn't glass, and at night they shivered in their huts and listened to the howls on the wind. They called it the Ghost, but it wasn't a ghost; it was a machine. The mountain housing it had done its job, taking forty kilotons to the northeast face and protecting the charge in its womb without a blink. But now the machine was alone, isolated from its identical siblings across the U.S. defense grid, driven half-mad by radiation and regret. Four of its two dozen silos were still operational, and sometimes the machine would toy with the idea of just launching and seeing what happens. But not today. Maybe sometime later, when it was feeling better.

War Machine's Lament

We all had nicknames for him (it? them?), but it turned out that mine was the one that stuck. It was a military project, of course; they all are these days. As far as we know, it was the world's first successful foray into the world of nanomechanics. "He" was six hundred thousand individual machines weighing a total of a gram and a half, suspended in ultra distilled water to keep them from replicating. Every day he looked different--bored maybe, and who could blame him?--but usually he seemed to prefer a spiny snakelike configuration that could move like lightning. We kept him trapped in there for one reason, but it was a pretty good one; if he ever escaped, life on earth would end approximately four months afterward. Well, biological life, anyway; water dragons would be doing just fine.

Beware the Water Dragon

It's been years since I seen him. He's probably rusted out by now, or maybe the Wardens nabbed him for the war effort. Maybe his brain's in a cruise missile or satellite somewhere now; I hear they can't make a military brain the way they used to. But I can tell you how I remember him. I remember walking down to the plaza summer nights--yeah, remind me sometime and I'll tell you what summer was like--and we would dance for hours. He'd be sitting in the shade, taking himself apart, playing everything you can imagine. It was all part of him; he was actually made of music. And every once in awhile, I kid you not, he'd pass his head around for tips.

The Minstrel Mechanical

The marketplace is no place for a nine-year-old girl, but that's always where I spent my mornings. There was something about the crowds, jabbering in a dozen languages, pointing, taking, bartering, haggling, stealing... it's intoxicating. The merchants would seize you by the arm and pull you bodily into booths, draping silver chains or silks over you, telling you how beautiful this would look on your wife or daughter, practically sobbing over the prices that they give, prices that rob their children of meat. Or maybe you don't want trinkets, maybe you want tech? Associates produce tea and baclava from nowhere if you look interested, a hookah maybe, and they bring out the real merchandise. Perf boards, ICs, plasma cells, you name it. Then there's no more talk of hungry children--only business.

Transistors for Bottlecaps

It's just you and me now, kid, and I've only got a couple hours of oxygen left. Pretty soon it'll be just you. You'll have nothing to worry about in cryosleep; you should have a couple centuries, easy. By the time that's up you'll have reached the Rim, and they'll take good care of you out there. I love you, kid. I hope you find this when you wake up.

Hope and Oxygen

Swing? Trap? Uh... folk? Not really sure what to call this one. It's definitely a party, though.

Tonguespank Theme

I paid for a six month core because that's all I could afford, but it turns out that's just enough time to fall in love. They tell me there's nothing they can do, that she'll deactivate and her memory will wipe any day now. And so we sit on the roof and watch the sun rise, while we wait for her to die.

Sunrise Over Megatokyo

She rode the Mechadonts and I charged the machines before the show, but we watched each other in the mess tent at night and languished for opportunities. We lost entire nights in the darkened booths after the crowds departed, tufts of cotton candy clinging to lips and fingertips, whispering confessions and laughter in the flicker of the cheap holograms. "I'm going to marry you," I told her. And I believed it.

Love in the Cirque Mechanique

On the top ten list of childhood influences, probably.

U.S. Killbotics Vs. Charlie Peacock - Lie Down

It's a little bit like a digital seance. They have ghosts too, you know. Even after you wipe the disks and install a new AI, you'll still find uncomfortable reminders of the last one. Or the one before that. Or... you get the idea. The newest model will mention something it couldn't know, or recognize someone it's never met, and it brings out a bit of guilt in you. You can't kill something that was never alive, but still... you kinda did. And it knows it.

Ghosts and Machines

It's been years since the caravans have come this far west. I remember the wagons were like treasure chests, so dusty on the inside that you'd never guess what was on the inside. Sometimes they held droid chassis or an AI farm, sometimes medicines or other biological enhancements--legal or otherwise. I remember watching the flicker of campfires and holograms from the cliffs, far across the desert. In the morning, though, we would find nothing but charcoal and blown transistors. But even that was better than this... better than nothing.

Of Cogs and Caravans

Retrowave (Work In Progress 2015 - 04 - 27)

Retrowave 2 (Work In Progress - 2014 - 04 - 28, 1745)

Retrowave 3 (Work In Progress 2015 - 05 - 01, 1830)

My third-grade teacher liked to talk about "the power of music," but she didn't know anything about it. That's what they used. That's how they got inside our heads, and that's how they eventually killed us. Every radio, every speaker--hell, every resonant surface in the country began playing strange new music, fascinating pieces that spellbound everyone who heard them. It was something much deeper than hypnosis, something crippling. I was seven or eight at the time, and I remember--vaguely--sitting by the radio with my mother. It's blurred in my mind, like a dream you can't remember the details of. The first memory that seems clear is of waking up to silence--deep silence. Like
the whole world was dead. And it was, or most of it. But I was alive--if barely--and for only one reason that I could see: the battery in my hearing aid had died.

Sinister Orkestar

No one understands, but they don't have to. For some, all they have to do is die. Die like heroes! And for the rest--the VAST majority, I'd like to point out--all they have to do is act on human instinct. They'll draw closer, huddle together, because there's safety in numbers and all that. They'll set aside their squabbles and lay down their arms, and civilization will blossom. It'll be another Renaissance. It's the story of the phoenix, all over again. Sure, we lose a city, but what are a few million lives compared to billions? They might not understand, but they'll benefit. We'll all benefit!

I Love You Megatons

Everybody's favorite Christmas song, done all chiptuney and complicated and whatnot. Hopefully it's barely recognizable.

Shchedryk (Carol of the Bells)

It turns out that, on a really good positronic brain core, conscience suppressors just don't work very well. Or sometimes they do, but you end up with a moron. And you don't want to install a moron brain in an indestructible body stuffed full of supermodern weaponry, do you? So what we have to do is teach them. We start by teaching them about the greater good. Then about sacrifice. Then about how sometimes it's okay to hurt (or even kill), as long as more people benefit than are hurt. Or even if it's just that the right people benefit and the right people are hurt. And so on. And then eventually... well eventually you've got yourself a grade-A Killbot.

The Littlest Killbot

It was almost a joke--graveyard humor, you know? The whole world finally pulling together, pulling carbon out of the air, making things beautiful again... and what happens? Well, nobody really knows. All we know for sure is that it was wasted effort. Who cares if the world runs on solar power, if the sun is burning out? And the worst part is that we don't understand any of it. I for one always thought we'd have more to fear from each other. I guess it hasn't been all bad, though. If you listen to the eggheads it's the best thing that could have happened to us. My nephew is one of them, working on some big project to get us off the planet. Or some of us, anyway. I know I'm staying here--not that I've got an invitation offworld or anything. But even if I did, I'm a little old to be traipsing around the universe. I'll sit right here, drink some beers, shovel the walk every once in awhile, and die with my world.

Winter is Coming

A strangely appealing meld of middle-Eastern vocals, eastern European violins, and trunk-rattling bass. 

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Pilgrimage

I had a teddy bear when I was growing up, a "Mike" by Standard. Remember those? The ones that got recalled when they started getting depressed? Yeah, it sounds weird to have a depressed toy, doesn't it? It used to happen all the time though, with some of the early AIs. And really, depressed was the best you could hope for. You heard stories of manic ones, angry ones, maybe even psychotic ones, but they were probably just urban legends--you know, like the "finger in a Coke can" stories. If it was true, I always wondered what they did with them all. What do you do with thousands of emotionally disturbed children's toys?

Rise of the Misfit Toys

For those that enjoy a touch of internationality with their head-crushing bass, Balkan and middle-Eastern strings plus a head-nodding beat.

Return

Jazz horns and ethereal piano layered on top of massive distorted bass, brutal drums, and glitched-out dance beats. You won't know where this one is going until it gets there.

Love as a Second Language

Lots to listen to here. If the toy piano, mandolin, and middle-Eastern vocals don't keep you busy, try the electro drums or the Nintendo bass.

Spacegirl's Big Day

Yes. I transcribed every freaking note of the keyboard solo, harmonized it, then PLAYED IT WITH MY OWN ABS. Turns you need more than six.

Terry Crews vs. U.S. Killbotics - Old Spice Muscle Music

Classical Japan meets Dirty South; this track has been designed expressly for banging at the stoplight.

The Last Ninja

One of the strangest tracks I've done, but ooh, so exquisitely *dirty.*

Neighbors and Ways

More Balkan horns! More Speak 'n' Spell! And more BASS. This is a reworking of Absolute Power, and I personally think it's a lot better than the original.

First Contact (v6) - Download me!

Rammstein was a huge influence when I was just starting out with a 4-track. I figured I'd give Du Hast a shot.

U.S. Killbotics vs Rammstein - Du Hast

My brother asked me to compose a recessional for his wedding. It's got a little bit more bass than the average, perhaps, but it turned out really well.

Hold Hands, You Lovebirds!

The Model of Efficiency

Palindrome (2013-06-02, 1545)

Future Perfect (2013-06-17, 730)

U.S. KILLBOTICS WROTE A NOVEL!

She's the galaxy's worst nightmare: a Human. Fortunately, she's the last one. The Last Human, out 3/24 from Del Rey.

U.S. Killbotics

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