Forget Asimov's laws, forget R2-D2, forget AI altogether. These technocidal machines were born to kill.
On the left stands Buzzcut, a walking robot whose Weed Eater motor drives a byzantine assembly of rods and rubber belts. Three vicious-looking circular saw blades are mounted at the front, another three rotate at the rear, and the whole Rube Goldberg apparatus is supported by eight rubber-tipped aluminum legs driven by two separate electric motors.
On the right is KMM, a very different animal, its machinery protected under a rounded golden shell of graphite woven with Kevlar. KMM sports a pair of crablike metal pincers to grab its victims, which it then hammers into submission with a spiked metal tail.
Techno music pounds from giant speakers as the machines are made ready in an asphalt arena. Behind 6-foot sheets of quarter-inch bulletproof glass, banks of bleachers are packed with fans, who paid up to US$30 admission. The robot owners retreat to safety, clutching their radio-control units. Atop a rickety wooden platform, three judges wearing earplugs signal that they are ready for combat to begin.
Action! KMM zooms forward, snapping its pincers. Buzzcut revs his motors, whirls his saw blades, and starts hopping around on his bouncy rubber feet.
The contest is beyond bizarre; it's inhuman and demented. Imagine a fight between a paraplegic slithering on his stomach with an ice pick strapped to his back, and a hyperactive infant restrained so that he can only jump up and down and bite people. That's the gist of it.
Buzzcut tries to climb on KMM's back and slice it open, but his legs and drive belts get tangled. KMM's deadly tail swings, and its spike pounds one of Buzzcut's green electric motors. There's a bad ripping noise. Smoke rises; soon one motor is out of action, and two of Buzzcut's rubber feet are torn off, forcing him to dance helplessly in circles. Meanwhile, somewhere underneath KMM's rounded shell a linkage breaks, leaving the spike-hammer trailing impotently on the ground - but no matter, the weapon has done its work, and the judges reach their verdict. KMM is the winnah! The crowd roars with approval as sweepers start whisking away the debris.
Now imagine this kind of confrontation repeated in 100 different variations throughout two whole days, and you have Robot Wars, the annual monster slugfest in which lovingly crafted death machines duke it out one-on-one and in no-holds-barred mêlées. The concept made its début in 1994 as an obscure "art event," quickly gathered a fanatical following, and by '97 had spawned a six-week BBC TV series. This year's contests, scheduled to begin August 14 in San Francisco, will feature some 100 participants vying to pulverize each other into scrap metal.
Some robots are primitive metal boxes improvised by high school students in basement workshops; others are as sleek as race cars, crafted by professional model makers at Hollywood f/x houses. Mark Setrakian, for instance, developed some of the creatures for Men in Black; at the 1997 Robot Wars he exhibited a huge steel snake, 13 feet long, that writhed and crashed across the arena, rousing a standing ovation from the capacity crowd.
Why did Setrakian suspend his lucrative business and spend huge amounts of time and money developing this monster? "I like building robots," he says simply.
For Marc Thorpe, it's not simple at all. Thorpe is a bony, worried-looking, 50-year-old model maker who used to work at Industrial Light & Magic but now describes himself variously as a promoter and a performance artist. He invented Robot Wars, manages it, and justifies it with a long, rambling, philosophical manifesto. "Robot Wars offers a license to celebrate the archetypal elements of life and death without any person or creature paying a price for it," he claims. "It's a theater of survival, a microcosm of our own dilemma. Destruction is not by any means a negative thing; when a child builds a sand castle and knocks it down, this does not mean an innate desire for warfare."
In fact, Thorpe goes on, why couldn't robot slugfests steal audience share from contact sports? It's so much, well, psychologically healthier for us to see machines getting clobbered than people. Ideally he'd stage regional events across America, televised on ESPN, leading up to the national finals.
Is he onto something? American Gladiators's musclebound thugs in superhero costumes try to hit each other with tennis balls fired from compressed-air cannons; fans will cheer costumed wrestlers bashing each other with folding chairs. Why not Robot Wars?
Then again, audiences who actually witness the Robotathon may be unconvinced by Thorpe's earnest assurance that the spectacle is benign and irrelevant to real-life warfare.
At the weighing-in session preceding Robot Wars, clusters of nerds show off their killer bots in "The Pit," an area cluttered with folding chairs, power tools, cables, and battery chargers. The hall echoes to the sound of tortured metal and stinks of solder and burning rubber as builders make last-minute mods to machines sprouting spikes, knives, cutting wheels, hammers, and chain saws. To the casual observer it looks like boys with their toys, and the toys are lethal.
"I just don't see the point of it," says Frank Jenkins, an engineer who inspects robot competitors to ensure that they comply with safety regulations. "I have built several robots myself, but I would not enter this contest, because I don't think robots should be destroying each other."
Others, however, revel in the aesthetics of destruction. Peter Abrahamson, who by day freelances creating animatronics and puppets for Jim Henson's Creature Shop, spent eight hours a day for four months building his robot for the 1997 event. "But even if it gets shit-hammered," he commented beforehand, "and hydraulic fluid is all over the place, and a battery catches fire - it's totally OK. I'd love that, going down in a big blaze of glory."
There's something more visceral here than the intellectualized "celebration of archetypes" that Marc Thorpe propounds. Robot Wars has the same primitive appeal as any schlock sci-fi movie in which spaceships are vaporized or cities are reduced to rubble. But that's the least of it. In a world of sleek, boringly efficient gadgets that are becoming increasingly sophisticated and intimidating, it's fun to watch retro robots that are designed to destroy - or be destroyed. In fact, their fallibility gives them a sense of innocence and even charm, like not-very-smart children.
"You would think that a bunch of machines bashing each other would be utterly devoid of emotion," comments John Knoll, who codeveloped the first version of Photoshop, Adobe's legendary graphic arts application. "But when you're there, you are keenly aware of the very human personalities." Knoll, an ILM visual effects supervisor, is working on the new Star Wars, but he always takes time out to build something for Robot Wars.
The robot personalities create intense drama in the heavyweight division, where a three-year vendetta now promises to reach an especially devastating climax at this year's event.
Robot Number One in this feud between the ugly, the bad, and the good is Blendo, a metal dome like a giant hubcap, concealing a gasoline-powered lawn-mower motor that turns a 120-pound flywheel. Two blunt steel blades protrude at the rim, reaching a rotational speed of 70 miles per hour when the flywheel attains its cruising speed of 400 rpm. In test sessions, Blendo has destroyed surplus office furniture with ruthless efficiency.
The machine's builder, Jamie Hyneman, wears a black beret and camo fatigues and stands with military posture, like a Special Forces veteran promoting his favorite land mine. "In 1995," he says, barking out the words, "the first opponent we went up against was a quarter-inch-plate steel barrel. He just sat there and died. The second guy had spikes all around him, and we ate them like corn on the cob. The way I see it, the more destruction we can cause, the better."
Hyneman shows no hint of concern, because at Robot Wars, destruction is the whole idea. "In a boxing ring," he says, "if you knocked the other guy down and continued to beat him to death, that would be bad sportsmanship. But at Robot Wars, you're expected to do this."
Blendo's unashamedly ugly, like a sullen kid with pimples who beats up other kids because they're nicer looking or get better grades. "It's low tech," Hyneman agrees. "But we're proud of that. We invested less money and effort than anyone in our weight class, and we made a more dangerous robot. I think that means we're smarter."
In fact Blendo was so dangerous, he was evicted from the 1995 Robot Wars when shrapnel torn from one of his opponents landed in the audience. Hyneman didn't attend the 1996 event, but Marc Thorpe felt compelled to strengthen the arena so that the deadly spinning dome could be invited back for 1997.
Alas, despite the modifications, history repeated itself. When Blendo faced his first opponent, a hapless aluminum box named Hercules, he ripped off a piece of armor and threw it across the arena, carving a two-inch gash in the bulletproof glass. If the trajectory had been a few feet higher, the jagged-edged metal would have hurtled into the crowd with potentially nightmarish consequences.
Once again, safety officials banished Blendo. This roused a collective sigh of relief among most other participants - but not all. Greg Munson and Trey Roski were seriously pissed about it, having spent the entire previous year actively planning a showdown with the seemingly invincible monster bot.
Munson, 32, is lean and manic, with an intent look in his eye. Roski, his cousin, is a year older, less talkative, but equally obsessed. By day they run a digital design business in San Francisco, but robots are their all-consuming passion. "When we were kids," says Roski, "Greg and I always messed around with radio-controlled cars, helicopters, and model rockets. And we always blew up our toys at the end."
Munson nods. "That's common among robot people."
"It feels better to blow it up yourself than have it break," Roski explains.
Munson does most of the engineering work, while Roski, a former helicopter pilot, deals with the driving - and the destruction. "In 1996," he recalls, "when I hit the South Bay Mauler, it was launched about five feet in the air, three feet backward, and fell on itself." He smiles happily at the memory. "Nothing compares with being in total control of a robot, facing another guy's robot, and destroying it. I don't know what it's like to be a rock star, but - competing in Robot Wars has to feel something like when Pete Townshend smashes his guitar. A total adrenaline rush."
What if his robot is the one to be demolished?
"We don't have Builder Syndrome," he says dismissively.
"That's when people get so involved with the thing they build, they can't bear to see it broken," Munson explains.
"Yeah, we don't care," says Roski. "On the night before Robot Wars, we take all the remote-controlled cars and airplanes that we've made during the past year and smash them up, to get rid of Builder Syndrome."
They entered Robot Wars originally in 1995 as ballsy upstart amateurs with a cheap $600 middleweight named La Machine. Her simple wedge design won no awards for good looks but was so effective at knocking adversaries out of the ring, she won not only in her own category, but in the heavyweight mêlée as well. In 1996 La Machine was victorious again, but Munson and Roski weren't satisfied. Jamie Hyneman gave an interview stating if he hadn't been disqualified, Blendo would have pulverized La Machine. For Munson and Roski, this was intolerable. It became a matter of honor to confront Hyneman's robot and affirm their legitimate status as champions.
In collaboration with another self-taught model maker, Scott LaValley, they raised $25,000 from corporate sponsors and embarked on a massive R&D effort. At LaValley's parents' home in northern Marin County, where neighbors still keep horses in their front yards, the robot builders spent long weekends in a garage cluttered with disassembled motors, metal sheeting, welding equipment, and massive cabinets full of tools. Adjacent to the garage they set up a work area equipped with a band saw, drill press, air compressor, and 7-foot-high industrial-grade milling machine donated by another corporate sponsor, Jet Machine Tools.
From this crucible was cast a new version of La Machine, specifically designed to annihilate Blendo in the 1997 contest. Barely under the 180-pound maximum weight limit, the wedge-shaped shell of quarter-inch welded aluminum plate supposedly would withstand a hammer blow from the spinning dome, slowing it enough for La Machine to execute her classic ramming action, leaving Blendo spinning helplessly on his head.
The one thing they didn't count on was Hyneman getting disqualified again, removing his robot from the contest and leaving La Machine facing a very different adversary: BioHazard, the third player in the three-way vendetta.
Built by Carlo Bertocchini, who does mechanical design for a company in Menlo Park, BioHazard is a gleaming flat slab of stainless steel, titanium, magnesium, and aluminum just 4.5 inches high, edged with hinged fender skirts that brush the floor. Underneath the armor, wheels, motors, batteries, and wires fit together with exquisite precision, like something fabricated by NASA. Technically and artistically, BioHazard is a thing of beauty.
Designed primarily to be invulnerable to attack, BioHazard has only one offensive tool: a jointed arm terminating in a shovel blade which slides under other robots and tips them over.
Bertocchini dresses immaculately in a clean white shirt (unlike almost any other Robot Wars participant) and comes across more like a classical musician than an engineer. He speaks softly, showing gentle affection for his creation. "BioHazard in 1996 was disabled when I got a good sideswipe that bent the arm," he says, sounding sad. "But in 1997 I made it a lot stronger. Formerly, this lever was made out of magnesium; now it's titanium. I went from four-wheel drive to six-wheel drive, and added the fender skirts. There's not much they can damage. Even the motors have hardened cases."
Sure enough, in 1997 BioHazard was impervious to all comers - including La Machine. Immediately before their confrontation, Roski and Bertocchini stood side by side, elbow to elbow, oblivious to each other as they held their radio-control units, ready to duel vicariously via their metal children in the arena. As soon as the match began, Roski thought he saw an opening - but suddenly found his robot pinned against the wall. BioHazard's articulated arm slid out, the shovel blade slipped insolently under La Machine's metal skirt, and within 15 seconds Bertocchini trivialized a year of R&D and thousands of dollars in corporate sponsorship. La Machine was flipped onto her side, stranded ignominiously at the edge of the arena, while Roski stared in disbelief.
A couple minutes later, back in The Pit, a British TV crew asked Munson if he was disappointed. "A little," he said, looking shattered.
The interviewer turned to Roski. "How do you feel?"
He stared back at her. There was a long silence. "I don't know," he said finally.
In truth, it was an intolerable blow. Still, the former champions were unbowed. On the very night of their defeat, they started plotting their comeback. A couple days later, their usual in-your-face attitude reasserted itself, and they started sounding like Don King. "In 1998 we're going to turn BioHazard into an art piece," boasted Munson. "The only thing Carlo will be able to do with it, after we've finished with it, is hang it on the wall."
They experimented with various methods to prevent La Machine from being tipped over. They installed a giant suction cup that would clamp itself to the floor, resisting as much as 1,000 pounds of upward force. They abandoned this concept, though, because it immobilized their own robot as well as the opponent. "We've figured out a much better solution," Munson now claims. "I can't say exactly what we have in mind, but if we get tipped over this year, we won't stay tipped over. That's for sure."
They've also installed a hinged steel flap that folds down flat in front of their robot, low enough and thin enough to slide under BioHazard's fenders - or under the dreaded Blendo, whom they still hope to confront. They're so confident, in fact, that they already challenged Hyneman to a private duel in a parking lot. (He declined.) Still, in August it seems they will have their chance for the ultimate showdown. Marc Thorpe now claims that absolutely, positively the arena will be made tough enough to withstand any carnage that Blendo can inflict. "I swear I'll never let the situation happen again," he says, "where a robot conforms with the rules but has to be asked to withdraw."
Typically, Thorpe delivers this vow with absolute conviction and heartfelt sincerity. He may still be stymied, though, by the inherently unpredictable nature of Robot Wars. This spectator sport is technology-driven, and the technology is still very young. Human ingenuity has already yielded some bizarre, baroque, mind-boggling combatants in the arena of mechanized destruction, but, without a doubt, the ultimate potential in this arcane art form is still waiting to be discovered.
At this very moment, an unknown, an outsider, could be toiling in a garage workshop, perfecting a new robot that complies with all the regulations yet is even more lethal than Blendo - in which case Thorpe will face a new dilemma. And, more important, the feuding triad of veteran contenders might find themselves humiliated in a surprise upset perpetrated by a - gasp - rank amateur.
Don't miss it.
No Bot Wars '98
__ No Bot Wars '98 __
This year's Robot Wars, originally scheduled to commence August 14, collapsed in a storm of litigation between co-owners Marc Thorpe and Steven Plotnicki. "I've been swamped by legal issues which made planning impossible," says Thorpe, who cannot update the www.robotwars.com/ site until the legal battle is settled. According to Plotnicki, Thorpe "tried to buy the license for US$10," he refused, and Thorpe sued. "When the truth emerges it will be clear that Marc is the one responsible for Robot Wars 1998 not happening."
Wired was unable to publish these last-minute developments due to its production schedule. For more details on the (non)event, check the robot-builder discussion forum at www.customforum.com/robotwars/.
