“Who indeed?” I say with a cheerful façade.
“Very incautious of a combat android to get sky-lined like that,” he teases.
“Yes, very. I must be getting old.”
“Never,” he says, giving my hair a gentle stroke. But even this is not enough to distract me. I was not in the area, and I am far too aware of my surroundings to ever be skylined. No, this must be the self-named Lilith. She has detected Wrik’s presence on the planet, and either she, or one of her HCRs, is scouting Delt’s shop. This must be rectified.
“Hey Wrik,” Delt calls from inside, “make yourself useful. Help me carry this stuff out. I found some chips and a bottle of Helevar.”
Wrik rolls his eyes but heads inside.
I find myself in a quandary. Wrik and I are becoming more than we were, something special and unique in one way and ordinary and commonplace in another. With the others in our network gone, we are functioning more as a couple. All that I have learned of such pairing is that open and honest communication is essential to their functioning. I have long since discovered that lying to Wrik, even by omission and for his own good, is a failure of the relationship and a breach of integrity. Yet, how can I tell him, in the middle of his quest to reclaim his past, that we are the targets of a berserk human and a sextet of the Confederacy’s deadliest fighting machines? Once he knows of the danger, he will unquestionably insist on aiding me in dealing with it. He will, as usual, promise to stay out of danger in a bald-faced lie and intervene at any moment he perceives I am in trouble.
I cannot yell, or curse, but almost wish that I could. A promise could not prevent Wrik from opening fire on the thirty-meter-tall Destroyer with a mere rifle when I was in combat with it. The only thing that saved him was my forcing the Destroyer to choose between dealing with me or Wrik. It properly chose me. While it is true that Wrik’s intervention in that battle saved me from destruction, it did so at utterly unacceptable risk to his frail human body. Yet, I have promised not to lie to him by leaving out information. I could drum my hands on the table in frustration, save that it would be reduced to splinters in a second. What to do?
If Wrik helps me in a situation where logically, as the easier target, he will be focused on by six HCRs, he will be killed. The Destroyer had no idea how important Wrik is to me, Lilith will know at least that we have been close for years. He must be kept out of the action, at least while such a course lessens the danger to him. To keep him out, he must not know of the threat. I will therefore lie; it is the lesser of two evils. Comforted by having made a decision, I make a followup one. A mild sedative will ensure a sounder than usual sleep for Wrik. I will slip out and engage the enemy after we retire for the evening.
It occurs to me that grievances are sometimes a form of currency in relationships. Wrik abandoned me to deal with his quest. While I have said I forgive it, I am still upset by the action. He has been very apologetic since, but still, if I must disclose this deception, I can use the balance of my grievance in exchange. This will rebalance our account.
Excellent, I have figured it all out. The equations balance. Perhaps relationships are not as difficult as I feared.
Internally, so Wrik and Delt cannot hear, I open a channel to the ship. Dusko responds in a leisurely twenty seconds. “Dusko, here.”
“Get the flitter. Load my armspac and the material in loadout box six into it. Proceed to these coordinates. Avoid being contacted, or observed by anyone. There is an isolated glade in tree cover there. Set down and unload the material in the space of 120 seconds then return to the ship. Plan your arrival for 2330 hours.”
“And what do we say when we want something?” Dusko responds.
“Two responses occur to me. The first is a ‘please.’ The second is, ‘perform as directed or I will grind you into a paste that I will use to lubricate my nether regions.’ I offer them both.”
Dusko gives a derisive snort. “I’ll opt for the former. Anything else?”
“No.” Has it come to this? From being a figure of terror, a leading cause of death to Infestors, Guild and hostile AIs, I am now reduced to where even Dusko can laugh at me. Indeed my stock is far down if such is the case.
Delt and Wrik return. Wrik has another chair. Delt brings out a bottle of yellow liquor and a bowl of chips on a tray which he deposits on the table in front of us. He pours three generous portions of the liquor in clear fluted glasses. We settle in to talk and drink. To my surprise, at one point, my two companions burst into song. The songs become a bit ribald as the bottle’s contents drain. Delt eventually slouches down on the settee and passes out. Wrik, who has also had more to drink than is his wont, gives a concerned look, but in shared inebriation seems mostly interested in bed.
“I will take care of it.” I lift Delt and carry him upstairs to what Wrik indicates is his room. It’s decorated with a variety of aircraft holos and flat paintings. The room is very messy, with clothes hung on the mix of indifferently-made furniture. Empty alcohol bottles dot it. I notice something else. While there are images of family and friends, pictures of Delt in sports gear, there is nothing indicating his service in the rebellion: no souvenirs, no flight jacket or other insignia. This nexus of factors tells me that for Delt, as for Wrik, the past is a source of pain.
I hack the planetary network and examine the room contents as I carry Delt to the bed, followed by an unsteady Wrik. I place the big man in it and cover him. In that time, I have examined Delt’s school records, combat and flight records. The extraordinary potential of Delt as a young man has not been matched by his performance postwar.
“He drinks too much,” Wrik says with the careful pronunciation he uses when he has indulged in alcohol. “It never, ever occurred to me that he could be hurt by the war. Not the way I was hurt, but hurt anyway. War is a toxin in itself.”
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself. “Even for me, literally made for war, I too have felt the toxin, when I interrogated … when I tortured Infestors to death. Why else would I have erased the memories? And now that I am more alive and have things precious and irreplaceable to me, now, I hate it!” The last explodes out of me with a force that startles us both.
“Come,” he says putting an arm around me carefully, as if he could somehow hurt me. “Let’s head for bed. I’m beat. Tomorrow I start the rest of what I came here to do.”
“Not alone.” I warn.
“No,” he says, hugging me. “Never alone. Never again alone.”
When we go to our room, Wrik drops onto the mattress. I sit on the floor next to him for fear of crushing the bed. I remain still as he quickly drops off to sleep. My analysis of his brain wave patterns and depth of breathing indicates that he will sleep long and deeply, and the sedative I planned to use is unnecessary. I remove my yellow hair ribbon and place it inside a drawer, then slip out of the room and down the stairs.
Once outside, I scan the sheds and structures. There are lights on in one and I hear two beings working on an aircraft. The airfield is lit by a few ghostly lights but there is no activity. Most flying here is done under visual flight rules, and the automatics are primitive enough to discourage night flying without a specially equipped aircraft such as Dusko is flying.
I change my outer chassis. Gone are the light and feminine clothes I have taken to wearing. Now I am a non-reflective flat-black from head to toe. From inside my body, I release additional spybees. My own onboard sensors would likely detect normal machinery, or armed biological troops in the area, but HCRs, though crude by my standards, are nonetheless effective infiltrators. My observer-bees drone off to their assigned stations while I speed for a small hill nearby. It is not much of a hill but in these flatlands will provide a good observation post. It is also where Wrik saw what he thought was me.
I approach the hill with my passive sensors operating at maximum setting. I sense no mines, booby traps or other cyber-mechanisms. I climb and examine th
e ground at the summit. Footprints from something heavier than me score the soil and vegetation. A Confed HCR was here that night. The prints tell me it came alone and from what direction it approached and went. I debate whether to pursue the trail, but decide to let my quarry come to me, so I may protect my sleeping friends. Lilith has multiple HCRs. Another might attack while I was away dealing with this threat.
I detect a flitter on my internal radar, heading toward the drop zone I directed. I close the location quickly and see our flitter with its running lights turned off, flying on infra-red and microwave emitters. Dusko lands and unceremoniously kicks out two large boxes from the square cargo bay, without exiting the flitter. He is gone in half the time I allotted.
I move out, secure the containers and return to the hillside. I draw my armspac from one, then bury both containers of ammunition and spares. I have improved my armspac since I fought the Destroyer, as I have also improved my internal armaments.
Settled on the military crest of the hill, so I will not be skylined, I wait with my armspac beside me. The stars wheel overhead and I enjoy this. There are unusual stars in this section of space. A binary system of a red giant and white dwarf is a mere two light years away. The pool of shared material that the white dwarf pulls from the red star glows in a pinwheel of excited atoms. Another large, green star glows softly in the sky. A most unusual color, it is called the Ginger Star and, as no easy hyperspace star routes lie to it, few have traveled there despite its proximity.
Movement interrupts my appreciation of the night sky’s beauty. One of my bees has detected something at the limit of its range. The glancing contact means my assessment was right. Whatever is coming is heading directly for the hillock I occupy, incautiously using this vantage for the second time in two days. Very sloppy, I am offended by such a lack of professionalism.
I zoom my vision and detect a figure striding in the open of the veldt in a brisk jog, making no effort at concealment. A triple-auto weapon is slung over its shoulder. There is an arrogance and contempt in that approach that is biological in origin. This is Lilith.
I consider opening fire without warning. I can easily destroy the HCR with an alpha strike from my armspac. But this Lilith is an unknown factor. Destroying an HCR without finishing her would merely alert Lilith to my presence, costing me the element of surprise against an enemy with five remaining HCRs, not an inconsiderable threat even to me, and deadly to my biological companions should one get past me.
Candace said Lilith could hack past normal methods of securing HCRs, something only I had done before. So a cyber-seizure is chancy. As I learned in fighting the Destroyer, when a biological body is integrated in an autistic system, it is proof against hacking. I cannot infiltrate, or hack a biological brain, and that gives the enemy cybersystem a place to hide and reboot.
Yet if I am to gain intel on the enemy I must make an effort to capture this machine. Decision made, I act instantly. I unleash a barrage of my best cyber-attack programs on the Confederate frequencies. At the same instant, I fire my armspac in sniper mode. A laser also licks out, its beam visible in the darkness as two high-velocity slugs from the accelerator ride it to the target. The laser and the HV strike the enemy HCR’s slung triple-auto weapon and shatter it. I realize the machine is no longer on Confed frequencies as it does not fall, but the frequency-hopping depth and virulence of my intruder programs causes it to stagger in a circle, one leg badly affected.
I put down my armspac and race forward to the flailing, juddering machine, but before I can reach it, the HCR shakes off my attack. There is indeed a biological brain working here. This calls for a change of tactics. The HCR’s distance weapon is gone; all it has is palm blades and physical strength. I angle away, then fire a burst of HV flechettes out my finger tips as the enemy machine flashes into full speed. Despite the distance and our relative motions I score 40% hits, damaging its armor but not disabling it. I run away at an angle, and my enemy foolishly falls for this, speeding in pursuit.
We both pound the hard-baked soil of the veldt under our feet and tear the mid-thigh length grass like berserk reapers. A biological doing this would be cut to shreds by the grass. I calculate the heat sink characteristics of the HCR from my schematics. It can maintain this speed for five hundred seconds before hitting heat saturation and risking shutdown. I can do so for five hours. I slow slightly, to fake vulnerability. Yet, I need not worry. Lilith is an obsessive about cybernetics, one who wishes to become the machine. What I have already shown her is greatly superior to her machine body. She will follow me from greed and lust.
As my enemy nears heat saturation, I simply stop and turn. The HCR slows and approaches, its palm blades out, every heat sink open, radiating so furiously that a grass fire is possible. I am no warmer than a human.
“Come closer, Lilith.” I call.
The HCR stops a distance away, and I stare at my adversary. She has modified the machine, and a human face looks at me: attractive, yet remote, incapable of movement and expression. She sends microbursts of communication laden with virus at me. I reject them.
“Speak audibly,” I say, “or I will destroy you now.”
“You might find that a challenge.”
“No. You would have been destroyed before you knew of my presence but for my desire to speak to you. I only took your weapon. You will not be so lucky a second time.”
The face cannot show anger but it radiates from the stance and the angle of the head. I have hurt her feelings and made her feel inferior. Good.
“Surrender to me. I am authorized to offer you fair treatment. You have been judged mentally unstable due to your deformities. You will be treated medically, not imprisoned.”
A stream of obscenities follows. I ignore the noise.
“Before I answer,” Lilith says. “Tell me what you are. You’re not a HCR, you have no controller or you’d be under my control. No robot has your autonomy. What the fuck are you?”
“I am a self-aware artificial intelligence from before your kind did more than hunt with bone weapons. My origins are otherwise no concern of yours. I represent the Confederacy.”
“Incredible,” she says. “Yet I know those fools could not have made you. I had heard of you and Trigardt, of course, but I thought you were simply an improved HCR. When I found evidence he was onworld, I assumed he would have you with him and only I could be the target.”
“And you planned to strike preemptively.”
“It’s only good tactics,” she says, with a shrug. “But tell me, why would you work for them? You could be free.”
“I am free but again that does not concern you. I offer you a choice, surrender or death.”
“You neglect the other alternative.”
“This is foolish,” I say. “I have already demonstrated my superiority several times. You must realize your HCR body is no match for mine.”
“We’ll see,” she hisses. “Maybe I will tear your guts out and use them to make a better me.” She deploys her palm blades and lunges toward me.
I close with my enemy. The HCR body is robust and quick, but, I easily parry her initial strikes. This is an unusual situation for me. I have fought Infestors and other biologicals before, and those combats have been brief, with me simply tearing the biologicals to pieces. Now I am engaged in a martial contest of blocks and strikes, faster than the biological eye can see. This technical fighting is interesting and a little exciting.
I am impressed with my opponent’s ability to integrate her mind and body; the HCR’s movements are superior to any I have observed before. I am at a loss to understand how. My blasts of virus and ECM jamming simultaneously employed with my physical attacks are simply ignored. How can this be? When I fought the giant Destroyer, it had contained Shasti Rainhell’s grandson in its body. As I disrupted its network, the machine used Maximillian’s captive biological brain to reset, but there was a time interval. H
ere, I gain no traction at all. I know that the machine is too small to hold Lilith’s original human body, even if she amputated the limbs. Nor could it carry the life-support for a disembodied brain. Somehow it’s as if she IS the HCR.
The clangor of our combat fills the night as sparks from our clashing limbs shatter the dark. Lilith’s combat capabilities as nearly equal to a Creator Mark One or an Infestor Intruder such as the one I salvaged an arm from. But I am M-7.
“I give you a last chance,” I say as I block a flurry of kicks and punches. “Surrender into my custody, or be destroyed,”
“Die,” Lilith shrieks and wades in.
I double my speed and power and instantly penetrate her defense. My blows shatter the HCR’s limbs. I crush a knee joint with a snap kick then leap and plant a roundhouse kick on her head. The HCR staggers, but to my surprise, manages a spinning back kick that knocks me back twenty feet.
We stare at each other across the trampled and torn turf. Her one remaining eye is expressionless. She balances on one leg and raises the damaged arms in front of her. The crippled body sparks and shudders. I find myself disconcerted by the sight of a machine so similar to myself in such distress. We are both slender with long hair, mine is black and hers’ almost colorless, but we are suggestive of human females. Can it be that someday I will stand so, damaged and defeated? A memory surfaces from my encounter with the Ribisan multi-verse Predictor – a possible future where it is I who lie crippled on a battlefield under a multi-ringed world, dying, with Wrik at my side.
Pity makes me speak again. “You cannot win.”
“No,” she replies, her voice distorted. “I don’t know who made you or how, but you’re beyond anything I’ve seen even in prototype. Still you have underestimated me!”
I see a subtle change in the HCR body. The fluid animation fades. Somehow Lilith is withdrawing from the machine. It can mean only one thing.
All the Difference Page 7