Marque of Caine

by Charles E Gannon

  Which, since Riordan had no functional weapon, would be problematic. “Turning thirty degrees left.”

  “We shall monitor their movements until you are within the city’s patrol boundary. Do you intend to pause for a meal, or shall we begin repair and assembly of your salvage?”

  “I had a big breakfast, so let’s get straight to patching this stuff together. I want to be on my way tomorrow.”

  “That may not be feasible.”

  “Maybe but I’m going to operate on the assumption that it is.”

  “As you wish. I shall see you soon.” Alnduul’s channel snicked off.

  As Riordan led Anansi further to the left, he glanced at the horizon: mounting layers of green, as far as the eye could see. Every square inch of Aozhoodn seemed eager to send up a shoot, a flower, a vine. With seas covering just over eighty percent of its surface, and with landmasses more numerous and smaller than Earth’s, the equator’s narrow tropical biome was flanked by two broad temperate bands. The planetary datafile indicated that there were a few rain-shadow deserts somewhere in that collage of blues and greens, but too small to spot from orbit.

  The planet’s three urban centers were almost as hard to detect: pinpricks of light that only appeared when the terminator line rolled beneath Olsloov, dragging the blackness of Aozhoodn’s night-side behind it. There was no evidence of outlying communities, transit networks, or nearby facilities. The one time that Riordan had openly wondered where all the inhabitants were, Alnduul had allowed a finger to drag downward. “They are there, Caine Riordan. But you will not see them.”

  Riordan had seen plenty of their proxrovs, though, cycling between different destinations before turning their backs on the city and marching back out through the encircling boneyard to god-only-knew-where. Hidden retreats of the unseen Dornaani, whose daily activities were—what? Being tended to by various automatons while staring at their nonexistent navels? Or was their involvement in virtuality so extreme that they had ceased to venture out of their homes? That thought, of thousands of Dornaani lying lost in dreams of places and events that never were and never could be, sent a chill dancing down Riordan’s spine.

  As he approached the edge of the city’s patrol boundary, a ubiquitous swarm of cookie-sized sentinel drones collected at his projected entry point. However, this time, a robot on treads was moving to join them. When Caine was five meters away from the automated welcoming committee, the bot uttered what sounded like a question in Dornaani.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Riordan. “Could you please speak slowly and use smaller words?”

  It was a full ten seconds before the bot tried again. In English. “Human. You may not enter.”

  Riordan frowned. “But I have exited and entered at this point for the past three days.”

  “This has been recorded. However, you may not enter at this time.”

  “Why?”

  “You have salvage, but you lack a salvage license.”

  Riordan sighed. Anansi was almost out of power, and the harvested gear couldn’t be refurbished without the tools on the shuttle. “How do I get a salvage permit?”

  “You must apply for one.”

  “Where do I do that?”

  “This unit is equipped to dispense salvage permits.”

  Well, why didn’t you just say so? Riordan walked across the line, stopped in front of the robot. “I wish to apply for a salvage permit.”

  “Do you require a daily, weekly, or yearly permit?”

  “Daily.”

  “Collector or salvage operator?”

  “Collector.” Riordan wondered who the regular salvage operators might be, imagined lojis combing through the wreckage.

  Sensor panels emerged from the robot’s back, swept Anansi. “Total mass of salvage remains under maximum daily collector limit.” The panels retracted, the robot hummed, and then a chime sounded in Caine’s control circlet. “Daily salvage permit, collector class, has been conferred. No fee. Travel safely, visitor.”

  Riordan walked back to Anansi, ordered it to follow him, and recrossed the boundary. As he passed the robot, he wanted to ask, “Why are you so stupid? Why are all you Dornaani robots so stupid?”

  The answer, or at least a partial one, hit him in mid stride: because the robots were designed to be stupid, even though Dornaani computers were incredibly sophisticated. Which made no sense, unless…Riordan doubled his pace toward the downport.

  The octobot was still scrambling to keep up when they arrived at the shuttle. Alnduul, emerging from its hold with tool kit in hand, stopped. “Caine Riordan, you appear to be agitated.”

  Caine ignored the comment. “Does the Collective have laws limiting the sophistication of robots?”

  Alnduul blinked. “Yes, as well as computer autonomy.”

  “Why? What happened to make Dornaani so fearful of robots, of autonomous machines?”

  Alnduul’s lids cycled very slowly. “That is not a question I may answer for you. But I suspect Oduosslun will.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Alnduul’s nictating lids flicked. “You misunderstand, Caine Riordan. In the process of helping you find Elena Corcoran, Oduosslun must answer that question. And others related to it.”

  Riordan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, but you will. Now, if you still intend to commence your journey tomorrow, we must begin transforming this rubbish into the devices you require.”

  Chapter Forty

  JUNE 2124

  AOZHOODN, SIGMA 2 URSA MAJORIS 2 B

  Riordan commanded Anansi to slow to one quarter speed. “Olsloov, are the crocodactyls still circling me?”

  Several moments passed, then, “They are.” Olsloov herself was not directly overhead, so all comms were routed through one of the overwatch satellites she had seeded before Caine set out three days earlier. The comm lag was significant enough to be a tactical concern.

  “Well,” Riordan sighed, squinting into the rising sun, “maybe these crocodactyls will keep their distance like the last ones.”

  “Perhaps,” Alnduul answered, “but that flock nested near the downport and had a healthy respect for machines. The three following you now are native to the wilds. Their movement is more confident; they are circling you more closely.”

  Riordan glanced around at the still-dim horizon: heliotropic clusters of huge, canopy-linked chrysanthemums—Aozhoodn’s equivalent of trees—hemmed him in on the east, south, and west. To the north, oddly jagged hills framed a narrowing valley that was part of the shortest path to Oduosslun’s coordinates.

  Riordan scanned through every point of the compass. “I still can’t see them.”

  Alnduul explained why. “The creatures are staying below the tops of the trees and the crests of the ridges. I suspect they will remain concealed until they close to attack distance.”

  Which was certainly what they seemed to be doing, Riordan allowed. Beneath him, Anansi plodded on with insensate relentlessness. At his back, the micro-velcro box was still three-quarters filled with provisions. The audio and lighting units were clipped to its sides; that array had already repelled more than one group of nocturnal predators. The faint chill of those nights had been amply warded off by the IR emitter upon which Riordan sat, riding at the front of the cargo disk, the coil-carbine across his lap.

  But now, Caine was beginning to think the better of wielding the weapon himself. “Alnduul, I think it’s time to set up the automatic targeting system.”

  Alnduul’s silence was longer than the lag interval. “Although the system functioned properly during tests, I do not recommend relying upon it now. It would have to engage three targets.”

  Riordan nodded for the benefit of the wilderlands around him. “Yes. Three flying targets. Much harder for me to hit, even with the smart targeting interface between the scope and the HUD.” He checked the holographic viewfinder he’d lashed to the side of the coil-carbine as its “scope.” Like most optics, it was finicky about
rough handling and had required resighting twice since Riordan had ridden Anansi out beyond the downport’s patrol boundary. “I’m not a professional marksman, you know.”

  “Yes,” replied Alnduul with minimum delay. “That is quite clear.”

  Ouch. And that’s not entirely fair, you facetious little—

  “However, using the automatic targeting device would require the octobot to remain stationary. You would also have to remove the container from the cargo bed.”

  “Only if I planned to mount the system on Anansi. Which I don’t.”

  “That is even less advisable. It would be best to—”

  Riordan caught a flash of movement above the trees to the west. Holding his carbine steady, he reached over and scooped up the handheld multispectrum scanner. It had proven to be a reasonable, if energy hungry, substitute for electronic binoculars. He swept it along the tree line, saw the tip of a crocodactyl wing, then nothing more. The scanner did not have a dedicated range finder like the scope/viewfinder, but it was able to give distance approximations by actively pinging selected objects. After returning an estimate of four hundred seventy meters to the tree line, Caine surveyed his intended path, especially where the woods converged from the facing skirts of the saw-toothed uplands. Presuming he kept to the smoothest ground at the center of that pass, he’d be within one hundred meters of the trees on either side.

  Riordan frowned, interrupted Alnduul’s stream of cautious advice. “I’m going to stop here. I’ve got almost five hundred meters of clear ground in every direction. But up ahead, that pinches down to one hundred meters on both flanks. At that range, they can fly unseen at treetop level until they swoop in for the kill. Neither I nor the automatic fire control system would have enough time to engage them all.”

  “Agreed. However, if you stop now, they may become more aggressive.”

  “I’m counting on it. They already seem determined to attack, so I want them to do it here, where the sightlines are longer.”

  Riordan knew that Alnduul would not agree, that Ssaodralth would become anxious, and that Irzhresht would not give a damn. But just as predictably, Alnduul’s eventual reply was, “What can we do to assist?”

  Riordan reached behind to ready the components of the automatic fire control system. “Alnduul, keep monitoring the satellite feed and tell me what you see.”

  “I could simply patch the visuals through to your HUD.”

  “No. I can’t rely on updates that are ping-ponging through a second and a half of relays. I need your eyes on the situation, and your judgment about what you think the crocodactyls are about to do next. Ssaodralth, be ready to operate the remote systems that I won’t have time to oversee.” Or might forget.

  “Such as—?”

  “Lights. Sound. The IR generator—”

  “The IR generator?”

  “Yes. They’re predators with heightened IR sensitivity and a tendency to flinch away from anything unexpected. So a big IR pulse might blind and scare them off for a few seconds. And Irzhresht, I need you to drop down to forty klicks, directly overhead.”

  “That will take time.”

  “That’s fine. The closer you get, the less lag.”

  “Understood. Complying.”

  Riordan exhaled hard, then breathed in deeply. Here we go. “Anansi, stop.”

  The octobot halted.

  Riordan grabbed the automatic targeting system’s platform—the turntable, its integral clamps, a few extra batteries—and jumped down. “Command circlet, assume local control.”

  “Warning,” it told him. “Local computing assets are less than one percent of those available from Olsloov.”

  Yeah, and they’re a second and a half too far away. “Understood. Confirm: command circlet to local control.”

  “Local control established,” the circlet announced. “Safety protocols may be compromised.”

  No kidding. Riordan set the turntable on the ground, “Zero-balance turntable. Raise to maximum elevation.”

  “Complying,” replied the circlet. The platform gimballed slightly, then rose up on its six telescoping legs until it was two-thirds of a meter off the ground.

  Riordan used three of the turntable clamps to hold the carbine, ensured that the weapon’s makeshift remote controller-and-handgrip had clear traverse in all axes. “Execute special command Ack-Ack.”

  “Executing,” answered the circlet. Riordan watched as the substeps began compiling on the left-hand side of his HUD:

  Control link to weapon scope: confirmed.

  Control link to turntable: confirmed…

  “Caine Riordan,” Alnduul said calmly, “the three aviforms are altering course. They are now spiraling in toward your position from the east.”

  Integrated feedback loop between subcomponents: confirmed…

  “Alnduul, start feeding target azimuths to the circlet.”

  “But the lag—”

  “Doesn’t worry me. I just need pretargeting updates so that the carbine leads the targets as they approach.”

  “Understood.” The turntable immediately swiveled through one hundred degrees to face east, then tilted so that the carbine was slightly elevated.

  Control link to weapon functions: confirmed…

  The turntable cheated slightly higher, then a bit more to the left—

  —just as the three crocodactyls came rushing over the eastern treetops, half a kilometer away. They were not massive animals: less than three meters from the chins of their toothy maws to the ends of their broad, flat aileron tails. However, they were capable of extraordinary bursts of speed and their hypertrophied barracuda jaws had severed Dornaani arms with a single bite.

  The circlet simultaneously announced and scrolled out, “Special command Ack Ack completed.”

  Riordan shouted, “Circlet, scan three incoming aviforms.” He jumped over to Anansi.

  At two hundred and fifty meters, the crocodactyls swooped lower and began spreading out. The turntable adjusted, became slightly more level.

  “Scan complete.”

  “Designate aviforms as targets. Lock on closest target.” As Riordan gave the orders, he slipped his only other weapon—a makeshift spear—out of the rack he’d affixed to the side of the cargo container. It might have started out as a tent pole; it had a wicked spike on one end.

  At one hundred meters, the two flanking crocodactyls swung away from the largest’s direct attack vector: a pincer movement.

  The circlet began to report, “Closest target is now—”

  “Engage closest target. One round per second. Once hit, shift to next proximal target. Repeat cycle.”

  The coil carbine’s shots—each a sharp spat!—were as steady as a double-time metronome. In his HUD, Riordan watched as the turntable struggled to keep the viewfinder’s reticle on the largest crocodactyl.

  The fourth bug-zapper report produced a wide spray of amber-brown blood that briefly obscured the creature. Then it was tumbling forward, revealing the gruesome wound that had been inflicted; it had been split down its spine, wings spasming as its body peeled apart like an opening hinge.

  Alnduul’s voice. “From the south!”

  Riordan turned, poked his spear in that direction.

  But that flanking crocodactyl was still thirty meters out. Directly behind Caine, the turntable was already accessing this next target; it spun around, reduced elevation, achieved target lock…

  …that left it trained on Riordan’s midriff.

  Shit!

  Caine dove left and down, toward Anansi’s legs—and felt a short, sharp gust as the first round went downrange just above him.

  The onrushing creature balked at all the rapid movement: the spinning turntable; the close miss of a projectile; Caine’s desperate dive. Its wings flared and it veered toward Riordan, jaws gaping.

  That slower, wider target silhouette was evidently all the autotargeting system needed. At eight meters range, it spat a second time.

  A gaping hole b
lew through the crocodactyl’s leathery left wing. It flapped harder, widening the wound as it swerved to fly away. Directly over the turntable.

  The weapon elevated rapidly, fired at the same instant the predator swept over.

  The rear half of the crocodactyl erupted into a mist of sienna-colored gore. It fell like a stone, its tail glancing the turntable and knocking it over.

  “Automated targeting off-line,” the circlet announced, just as the third creature swooped in toward Riordan, who thrust his spear out between Anansi’s legs. The crocodactyl slowed, swooped low, snapped at the end of the spear as it passed.

  It banked, the three eyes on the right side of its long head moving asynchronously, assessing, measuring—right before it changed tactics and came at Riordan over the back of Anansi.

  Unable to swing his spear around in time, Caine ducked and shouted, “Noise!”

  The cargo box on Anansi’s back abruptly emitted a staggering wave of sensory madness. Sirens yowled. Lights pulsed in eye-gouging detonations of lurid color. Horns hooted. Electric banshees shrieked. Blue-white strobe effects exploded like clustered star flares. And the IR emitter blasted a wave of heat straight into the crocodactyl’s face.

  Wings suddenly reversing, the creature turned, soared away.

  “Track target,” Riordan panted.

  “Distance and altitude increasing, both rates steady.” A pause, then, “Both rates declining.”

  Alnduul interrupted the circlet. “It is angling back.”

  Yeah. Stupid creatures tend to be stubborn creatures. “Keep giving me updates.” Riordan scrambled out from between Anansi’s legs, reached the turntable. Like most Dornaani gear, it was tough: no sign of significant damage. But there wasn’t enough time to set it up again.

  Riordan popped the clamps holding the carbine, reached for the combination handgrip-remote-controller.

  It was gone. Nowhere to be seen.

  Shit. “Anansi, belly down.”

  The octobot kicked its legs out straight, came to rest on its undercarriage.

  “The creature is at three hundred meters,” Alnduul announced.

  “Circlet, confirm command link to weapon.”