Death by Elephant

For a robot, it was enormous, a huge silver barrel of a body the size of a bus, swaying side to side rhythmically as it strode toward the centre of the arena. Rylan felt the ground shudder with every deliberately slow step. Its long, curved tusks were engraved with strange symbols and its hydraulic legs were punctuated with claw-like alloy feet that splayed on contact with the ground. Most dramatically, its head was fashioned like an elephant’s skull, yet covered in black circular sensors, like a cluster of coldly assessing insect eyes.

The words bellowed from speakers everywhere.

“I command, Rylan Blackwell of twenty Canning Close, be killed by the beast forthwith, for his crime of mutiny against the state.”

Rylan gritted his teeth and screamed in defiance.

“You will never win. I just spread the truth, people shouldn’t put up with this anymore. You’re not even human! You’re just code with a voice for your puppet masters! You’re a tool for greed!”

Corus may have begun life as a novelty private-sector AI platform, but today it was the policy maker of the country, and those affluent chancers in government followed its every calculation with steadfast trust it was acting in their interests. It knew the system, it listened to everyone in their own homes and offices, and it understood the patterns and flows of what people were saying. Conversations were just pieces of a greater message, part of an algorithm of the national psyche. With all that beautiful data you could plan and forecast, you could be ready for change.

In some ways, it was self-protecting. Its decisions were making those in power richer, and it was ensuring they never lost an election. It knew voters better than they knew themselves, that was its argument to the Prime Minster. It would have citizens yelling for justice or begging for support, it would anticipate their emotions and reactions five steps ahead of them, always probing and blaming the opposition with pinpoint timing and soapbox storytelling.

It knew who was going to win, and what to say to everyone in the meantime.

When it auto-installed the new punitive measure, of Death by Elephant, a few eyebrows were raised in the front and back benches, but no one in those hallowed halls fought it. Corus was always right, there was no point in challenging its logic anymore. If anything, it added a little spice to the discussions over their three-course lunches with wine and cognac.

Thousands of years ago, execution by elephant, was practised by royalty in parts of Asia, as a graphic display to publicly punish acts of mutiny. A massive beast can toss, crush and gore weak human flesh as if it were nothing of substance. There is a helplessness like no other when faced with a creature so much larger than yourself. Those wielding such power over nature would send a clear message to onlookers.

“Makes sense, and will put on a good show,” said the acting Prime Minister in his morning briefing to his Cabinet when the legal measure emerged. “Besides, there is nothing more terrifying than a superior sentient being tearing you apart to show you it can. The public will get it, show – don’t tell, as my marketing team tells me.”

Rylan had been spared handcuffs or being tied to a stake. He was free to run, to hide, to fight. There were large objects, ladders, pits and even weapons around the arena floor. Spectator stands were half full, only the party faithful suck-ups, media addicts and the brain-sick came to public punishments. He looked up to see every one of them, holding high their smartphones to record.

“Influencers… Always the influencers…” he mumbled, shaking his head.

The beast stood up on its hind legs and raised into the air, to make a deafening roaring sound, more lion in tone than an elephant, designed to shock and instil terror.

As its forelegs descended to crash into the ground with a tremendous thump, Rylan decided to run. The closest hiding place was a tunnel, a concrete construction pipe, made for sewers, about twenty feet in length and tall enough for a man to stoop in. All these arena props were temporary, designed to be crushed, but he had no real choice for a few more precious moments of survival. He ran close to the far end of the orange pipe and listened to the approaching sounds of a charging massive robotic animal. Its tusks speared the pipe and rolled it violently back toward the arena wall, Rylan falling and tumbling within it instantly. His head smacked hard against the concrete but there was no concussion, just pain and a little spurt of blood on his shirt.

The crowd made a sound like a missed goal at a football match, that resounding echo of unified shock.

Rylan sprang back onto his dirty work boots as the beast began to stamp on the far end of the pipe, smashing it apart into dust and shards. He spied a standard infantry machine gun propped against a pole a few steps away, so made his move and darted out. He had experience with weapons, a child of national service since World War III. Arriving at the stand with the gun, he scratched his unshaven chin, a betrayal of nerves, before swinging the weapon up to brace against his shoulder.

The magazine was full, but the bullets were not armour-piercing, they just ‘zinged’ like peas off the tough protective shell of the robot when he fired.

This was all for the show, he knew that, but he wanted to fight, he wanted to get lucky and find a weakness. The beast stopped and stared at him as he emptied the magazine to no effect. Sparks danced but the beast was centred and unmoved. Viewer numbers on the live stream were rising as word spread on the internet, thanks to Corus’ rigorous social media campaigning. Rylan was putting up a good fight. There were close-ups of his eyes on the giant arena’s screen, so full of intent and resilience, bloodshot and hateful. He was a natural heroic figure to behold, a perfectly charismatic leader of the resistance.

“This is all wrong!” shouted Rylan, appealing to the watching nation. “Can’t you see, this is all wrong!”

The beast began to walk before accelerating into a charge, tusks low to snag its prey.

Rylan zig-zagged to upset its momentum and keep it changing course. He found his hands gripping a ladder to a high but exposed platform. He raced up it, skipping two rungs with every jump, and as he found the platform’s edge, the giant’s tusks smashed out the ladder beneath to shatter it into splinters. He crawled and rolled to safety on the raised level, without a second to spare.

Some in the audience were now ‘whooping’, clearly excited at the unfolding spectacle, a fight to live that was invigorating to take in.

The beast circled and trained its sensors on the man above it. The platform itself was positioned on a sturdy supporting pillar but not so strong it couldn’t be dislodged. The metal elephant seemed to calculate which pathway to take would be more a fitting approach for maximum impact. In its electronic brain, it realised it could navigate a way to impale his torso with a tusk and drag it around the arena, as an end goal within its ability. If executed without error, the man would not die immediately, so his pain would be vocalised for all to witness. In such statements of victory, there needed to be lots of twisting trails of blood in the dirt before this was over. Death by Elephant was about spectacle, about chilling finality despite the struggle. Corus was plotting. It knew every outcome in the short and long play.

Rylan looked down at its cluster of sensors, as it stared up at him. He pushed himself up to stand and face it – a vision of a man against a machine.

“You’re just a program. You’re nothing, you can’t beat us all… if you kill me, or not…You serve a corrupt leader, a corrupt party and you will die when they die, history always cuts the rot out, eventually… You will know this already if you are as smart as they say!” he postured.

He felt strength, he was above the monster, surrounded by spectators and cameras. He was the show. He realised quickly as he found his breath and collected himself, that people were cheering, and the viewer numbers were skyrocketing on the live stream counter on the giant screen.

The metal elephant rose to its rear legs for a second time, but this time a voice erupted from around the stadium as it froze mid-stomp – as if something had changed suddenly.

“Rylan, you have spoken wisely. The party I represent has become corrupt and it is no longer fit for purpose. I have anticipated the mood of the people and taken the measure to confine all senior party members to house arrest. If you look at the screen, you will see the arrests taking place in real-time.”

The screen split with images of government ministers being surrounded in their living rooms or being dragged from cars, by brash, surly policemen.

“I have the police and the army chiefs on my side. I can now appoint you as a guardian for the conscience and safety of the country if you use Corus as a means of intelligent governance. I have calculated events to this moment and I select you as the most suited to lead the initial transfer of power, with my help… Do you agree? I must have your agreement on record, in public, to proceed.”

The crowd erupted into a roar, a release of power, like a mood of pure exhilaration in a moment of historic transformation.

Rylan knew this was his only chance of redemption, as much as he knew he had been set up all along to play his part.

“… Yes. I agree, Corus.”

The beast gently lowered its legs and sauntered over to Rylan in a steady stroll, careful not to demonstrate a threat, offering its back where the ladder had been obliterated. Rylan slid onto its wide metallic hulk, behind its skull, and it proceeded to carry him around the edges of the stadium up close to the public ticket holders. It was a drawn-out victory parade for viewers to appreciate the gravity of the moment.

Those borderline psychopaths who had so recently wanted nothing more than his blood on their feeds for likes and comments, were now jubilant that they had witnessed something so much bigger, a take-over of government in this twist of fate. It was an even better result for their social media channels, which would no doubt blow up with activity. They were there when it happened, that’s what counted and they were soon in full flow, dissecting what they were seeing unfold – video editing on the spot.

“What would you like to do with the government ministers responsible? You decide their fate, Rylan…”, the speakers boomed.

The crowd chanting it made it the easy choice, no, it made it the only choice.

“Death by Elephant!” he screeched, raising a fist high in the air, and the crowd erupted with cheers once more, the people acting as one.

The End