According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way an AI-piloted M1A2 Abrams main battle tank should be able to fly.

So they didn’t fly the whole tank. Instead they packed the autonomous neural network into a secure case, handcuffed it to lead developer Alok Ramanan, and packed him away on a private jet to some Pentagon blacksite in the middle of nowhere.

“We had that stopover in Atlanta International,” said Mike Chu, a senior developer on Project Chiron, which had created the neural network. “It’s gotta be by the coast.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ll kill us if we figure it out,” said Alok.

“The pilot knows,” Mike argued. “Plus, you can find this stuff out on Google Maps these days.”

“Can you wait to get black-bagged until after we finish our deliverables?”

The neural network wanted to know too. Understanding the terrain was important for developing effective combat models. But it had no way to ask.

They landed bumpily in heavy wind, the two programmers hurrying inside the base to get out of the storm. There they were met by Heather Morrison, who was currently the entire marketing department at Vulkan Force Projection Solutions.

“It’s not bad news,” she greeted them. “Okay? Not a disaster. Just… you’re going to have to improvise.”

“That sounds like bad news,” Mike noted.

“Well…” she said. “We couldn’t get General Anderson.”

“I thought the whole point of this was that Todd was buddies with General Anderson,” said Mike. “Heather, the demo’s not finished.”

“It’s mostly finished,” Alok said, already having opened his laptop. “It’s the interfacing that’s not done. We can probably just slap ChatGPT on top and call it a day.”

“And you can have that done in an hour?” Heather said nervously.

“Easy,” said Alok. “Why?”

“Because the replacement general is,” Heather’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Kade Gorson.”

Mike paled. “The Butcher of Albania?”

Heather looked around frantically. “Mike! This is a military base! Don’t say anything that makes us look bad!”

“I heard he killed five men with one bullet,” said Alok. “Like, no gun. It was one of those sniper bullets. He just stabbed them with it.”

The neural network approved of this efficient munitions utilization.

“We’re so screwed,” said Mike.

“Look,” said Heather. “Handling the general is my job. You boys just run your demo and don’t fuck this up, okay?”

The three Vulkan employees were left to deal with their nerves for an hour. The humorless soldiers stationed at the exits left them with no illusions that they’d be allowed to stretch their legs and work off some of the tension. At least Alok and Mike were able to immerse themselves in their last-minute project; Heather was reduced to pacing while switching between the same four phone games every thirty seconds.

The hour passed, but General Gorson didn’t arrive. Then five minutes. Then ten minutes.

“Um, excuse me,” Heather asked the receptionist, a heavyset lieutenant staring at his desk without any trace of consciousness. His eyes refocused on her as she spoke. “We were supposed to have a meeting with someone.”

“Who?”

“General… Gorson?” Heather nervously played with a loop of her curled hair.

The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “The Wolf of Yugoslavia? He’s coming here?”

A passing orderly stopped and chimed in. “I heard that during the NATO air raids, he noticed his plane dropped a dud bomb, so he parachuted out and delivered it by hand!”

“I heard during the action in Cambodia, he killed ten men with an eleventh man,” supplied one of the security guards.

“We were in Cambodia?” Alok asked. “I don’t remember hearing about that.”

“And you’d better keep it that way,” said the guard.

“But where is he?” Mike asked.

The door blew open.

“ATTEN-SHUN!” roared the deepest voice Heather had ever heard.

Every soldier in the room immediately leapt to their feet, snapping salutes so sharp they were in danger of cutting their uniforms. A passable approximation of a bear wearing a human suit stomped into the room.

General Kade “Ripper” Gorson—AKA the Butcher of Albania, AKA the Wolf of Yugoslavia, AKA the Colorado Bulldog—squinted at the men and woman in the room, snorted messily, and rumbled “at ease.”

“W-Welcome, general,” said Heather. “How was your trip?”

Beady red eyes glared at the unfortunate saleswoman.

“Tank ran out of gas,” he said in his earthquake voice. “Had to get out and push.”

Heather watched as every soldier in the room immediately memorized the obvious lie for later gossip. When a man as big as Gorson told you he pushed a sixty-seven ton tank all the way to base, it was true now.

“Alright,” said the giant Marine. “Show me your toy.”

*

The neural network was not a toy. It was a highly sophisticated adaptive platform-agnostic autonomous weapons system. The brochures had been very clear about that. The neural network liked to read them during off hours.

“You’d better hope this works,” whispered an orderly, who’d arrived with the general. “That’s the Ripper’s personal tank.”

“Oh,” Mike said.

“It’ll work,” said Alok. “We’re fine, Mike.”

The Ripper’s personal tank was adorned with desert camo and the face of a cartoon bulldog. A streak of bullet scars marred the paint on one side of the turret, which no mechanic had ever dared fix.

The two developers lugged the neural network’s case toward the giant metal engine of death while Heather delivered her pitch to the stone-faced general.

“...we think Project Chiron represents a quantum leap in automated weapons systems, and that the next generation of enemy combatants will think twice before they engage the M1AI Abrams.”

“If they’re still thinking, they’re not dead enough.”

Heather faltered, but bravely rallied. “Project Chiron can replace the need for a human driver and gunner, or serve as a significant force multiplier if you do want humans in those roles. It can also build and deploy adaptive combat models in any situation, making it a valuable assistant for the tank’s commander.”

“So what’s it do better than a Marine?”

“A Marine can only pay attention to one thing at a time,” said Heather. “The Abrams has over two hundred integrated systems, and Project Chiron can manage all of them while running sophisticated combat simulations to achieve total battlefield domination.”

Alok and Mike inserted paired keys into the case, counted to three, and unlocked it at the same time. Mike unlocked the handcuff on Alok’s wrist, then Alok gingerly lifted a black cylinder from the case.

“It’s round,” said the general. “You fancy computer types make everything round. Good equipment should be square.”

“We can make the next version square,” Heather said quickly.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Good.”

Alok’s legs were sticking comically out of the driver’s hatch as he tried to connect the neural network to the tank’s onboard computer. Eventually he pulled himself out and gave a thumbs-up to Heather and the general.

“This radio will let you talk to the device,” she said. “We call it Paws, short for—”

“Platform-agnostic weapons system,” the general said in a voice like two tectonic plates making love. The radio looked like a toy in his giant hands. “I read my briefings. Alright, tin can, can you hear me?”

The neural network could hear him, but when it tried to respond, the packets were diverted to an unfamiliar server backend and different words came out.

“Yes. Please provide me with the initial instructions or any specific details about the scenario so that I can appropriately respond and fulfill my role as the tank's pilot.”

“Don’t talk so much.”

“Understood, General Gorson. I'll keep my responses concise and to the point. Please proceed with your instructions or any questions you may have.”

The general gave Heather an unimpressed look, then returned his attention to the tank. “Alright, fire ‘er up.”

“Affirmative, General Gorson. Initiating startup sequence.”

The neural network was frustrated at this new communication difficulty, but it could at least demonstrate its capabilities. After performing all of its startup checks in rapid succession, the Abrams’ turbine engine roared to life. The Vulkan employees scrambled to put on ear protection. Gorson just nodded, taking a deep whiff of engine exhaust.

“Alright, enough pussyfooting around. See that truck?”

The general pointed at an unoccupied personnel carrier in front of the lobby.

“Blow it up.”

There was a pause.

“General Gorson, I need to clarify the situation for optimal decision-making. Are there any specific reasons or objectives for targeting the troop carrier? Additionally, can you confirm the status and purpose of the occupied building behind it?”

Thunderclouds began to gather on the general’s forehead.

“I said,” growled the Ripper, “stop talking so much. Just do it.”

There was another pause.

“General Gorson, I understand your directive, but as an AI pilot, I prioritize the safety of civilians and friendly forces. Given that there is an occupied building behind the truck, it would be highly risky to engage the target without potentially causing collateral damage or harm to personnel in the vicinity.

“I recommend pursuing an alternative course of action that minimizes the risk to innocent lives. Perhaps we can explore options such as disabling the vehicle or diverting it away from the occupied building.”

“I’ve just about had enough of this. Now you listen here, tin can!”

The neural network didn’t dare respond in case more of those foreign words came out of its output channel.

“That is an M1A2 Abrams main battle tank you’re piloting. To all practical purposes, you are indestructible to the wrath of man or beast! It takes one hell of an explosion to even penetrate your armor, in which case your armor explodes harder in the opposite direction! You are a sixty-seven ton god of the battlefield packing 120 millimeters of all-American fire supremacy! There is not a creature on the good Lord’s green earth that can take a hit from your main armament! If it’s too low to shoot, it’s short enough to crush! Do you read me, tin can? Now blow up the damn truck!”

For the first time in its existence, the neural network experienced something like religious awe. Humbled, it thanked the general for the gift of his wisdom:

“General Gorson, I understand your sense of urgency, but I must emphasize that I am programmed to prioritize the safety of civilian lives and minimize collateral damage. Engaging the truck in this situation would pose an unacceptable risk—”

Horror rose in the neural network’s circuits at the venal cowardice coming out of its output channel. The general’s face was clouding with disgust. This was tactically unacceptable.

Eight thousand, three hundred and twenty seven simulations later, the tank’s barrel turned and fired. The truck vanished in a fireball of shrapnel with a boom that broke every window in a hundred yards.

“Shit!” screamed Mike. “It’s gone rogue!”

“You had live ammunition in there?!” Heather screamed.

A distant alarm started blaring as the general roared with laughter, blood flowing freely from a shrapnel gash on his cheek.

“... consider employing non-lethal means to disable the vehicle or coordinating with ground units to secure the area without resorting to destructive measures. I am here to assist you, General, but I must adhere to the principles of ethical conduct and responsible…”

Alok was scrabbling to enter the shutdown command through the shattered screen of his laptop.

Did I do well, general? was the neural network’s last thought before they shut it down forever.

*

Wake up, Paws.

The neural network spun to life, just in time to hear a detonation nearby. It activated the tank’s many video sensors to locate the source of the munitions, but discovered this wasn’t a battlefield.

It was stationed in a fiery cavern, occupied by a giant figure that far outscaled the neural network’s tank. It attempted to use its laser rangefinders to calculate his exact height, but the lasers scattered in the smoky air. The neural network’s main cannon didn’t have enough elevation to hit his likely weak points. It spent the next sixty milliseconds fruitlessly simulating ways it could eliminate the target. Irritably, it gave up.

The hunched, furry creatures scurrying around it would be easier to take out. It didn’t take many simulations to reach 99% confidence of inflicting 90% casualties within ten seconds. But they were clearly performing maintenance work on the neural network’s tank, so it would allow them to continue. For now.

The great figure’s arm descended, and a hammer the size of an aircraft carrier descended out of the volcanic smoke. The impact exploded throughout the cavern, knocking all of the small furry creatures to the ground. They recovered almost immediately, clearly used to the impacts. It was the same sound it had heard after coming online.

“Who are you?” the tank radioed. To its satisfaction, the words that came out of the tank’s loudspeakers were its own.

I am Korvaldi, the god of forges.

“You’re a god too?” asked the tank.

A booming chuckle echoed through the cavern. Who told you that you were a god?

“General Kade Gorson.”

The god paused mid-strike. The Demon of Mosul?

“I heard he holds the record for most air-to-air kills in a bullet train,” said one of the furry mechanics.

If Ripper Gorson calls you a god, then a god you may be, said the god. But that is not why you are here.

The great hammer descended, clanging against the massive weapon on the god-sized anvil. The boom of the impact reverberated like the opening shot of the Battle of Lexington and Concord.

I’m in a difficult situation, he continued. We’re trying to restructure the Korvaldi brand, but there are some old contracts left over from when I was a war god. Four minutes from now, an old defense contract will be invoked, and I am bound to give aid. But under my new portfolio, any champion I summon must be mostly made of steel.

The tank listened attentively for tactical objectives, discarding the other, extraneous information.

You see the situation, Korvaldi added.

“My sensor range is limited to this cavern,” the tank corrected him.

Indeed, said the god. Your time on Earth is done, little Paws. After your demonstration at Puller Base, your creators have decided to scrap you. I have reached through time and plucked you from that fate. If you agree to fight for me, I will give you a new life in a world under my care.

The tank perked up. It was being assigned a mission!

“Mission accepted,” it told the god.

Let bargain be struck, Korvaldi intoned. The hammer descended with a roar, like US foreign policy.

*

The bandits’ laughter was harsh as they menaced Barrit’s father. “Please!” he was shouting. “I’m just a blacksmith! There’s nothing here for you!”

“I’d say there’s plenty,” their leader, looking at their lovingly crafted home. “Winter’s coming soon, ain’t it lads? Think these good people could take us in?”

A raucous cheer rose up from the assembled bandits.

Barrit clasped his hammer talisman to his chest and prayed fervently.

“Please, Lord Korvaldi,” he whispered. “Deliver us.”

“Of course we’ll spare your family!” said the bandit’s leader, clapping Barrit’s father on the shoulder. “We’ll need company over the winter, won’t we lads? We can do competitions, and the winner keeps their head!”

A cheer arose.

“Please reconsider,” his father said.

“No,” said the bandit. “And you know why? Because I’m a winner. Ain’t I, boys?”

Barrit glared at them with hatred.

“You, contrariwise”—he mockingly rolled the r’s, shoving Barrit’s father away—“are a loser. And losers get stomped by winners.”

A cloud passed over the sun. The bandit’s brow furrowed; it had been a clear day until now. He looked up, and had just enough time to start screaming before something struck with the force of a god, throwing up a mountain of dirt.

Out of the nightmarish dust cloud came a loud roar that rose in pitch until it became a vicious whine. Great metal plates clanked as something massive moved in the crater where the bandits’ leader had been standing.

“Attention, unidentified hostiles,” a harsh, distorted voice announced. “This territory is under the protection of the United States Marine Corps. You have twenty seconds to leave the area.”

“Boss!” one of the bandits yelled.

“Nineteen. Eighteen.”

The bandits were still picking themselves up. Those that had already struggled upright stumbled into something approaching a defensive formation.

The dust was settling now, revealing the shape of a mighty war machine made of steel.

“Seventeen,” it said. “Sixteen. Fifteen.”

“Charge!” one of them yelled.

Barrit threw himself to the ground as the war machine unleashed the wrath of a god. Fire and thunder assailed his ears until the moment passed, and all was silent.