The Installed Intelligence Trilogy Collection

by Phoenix Ward

  “We didn’t expect you to arrive so soon,” Tain said as they left the outside world behind.

  “Opes isn’t so far away, it turns out,” Gauge replied.

  “Our leader is currently preoccupied, but I think she will forgive the intrusion for this matter,” the escort said.

  Gauge couldn’t help but open his mouth in amazement as he studied the interior of the cave. The rock walls towered to at least three hundred feet in height, where Gauge could barely make out the ceiling in all the gloom. In fact, the whole place would be enshrouded in darkness if it weren’t for the incredible display of electronic lanterns that lined the entire chamber. Along the walls were makeshift buildings, all supported on giant beams and platforms. It made Gauge think of some of the mining colonies he heard about and he wondered if this used to be one of them. Bodyshells in various outfits and styles roamed the platforms, ascending and descending down the ramps and stairs that connected them all.

  “This way,” Tain said, turning toward the cave wall where an open-shaft elevator was embedded. It was made of thick iron beams, and judging by the rust, sometime before the Ghosts had arrived. Tain led the way onto one of the lifts and fiddled with the controls. Gauge balanced himself as the elevator lurched upward.

  It wasn’t a fast elevator. Once Gauge managed a steady stance, he realized they were only climbing at about a foot per second. The mechanisms creaked the entire time they were at work.

  “How long have your people been here?” Gauge asked once the creaking became too much for him.

  “Officially, not too long,” Tain replied. “The first of us, however, came here before the Great War broke out. It’s been a steady trickle ever since — especially since the Council took over.”

  “Not a fan, eh?” Gauge said. “Me either.”

  “Many believe the Council only oppresses the humans in their cities, but it’s not so, as I’m sure you know,” Tain said.

  “Of course,” Gauge replied. “It’s a power issue, not a racial one.”

  “Our people come from various cities, but most are refugees of Shell City,” Tain continued. “Like many groups of people, we sought safety from their tyranny. Unfortunately, the Council isn’t the only entity capable of evil. We’re regularly targeted by humans who project their hate for the Council onto us just because we’re I.I.s. At best, we are constantly harassed and targeted by thieves. At worst, we lose people. So we tend to keep to ourselves and away from the organics. That’s why the cave is so perfect for us — we don’t need arable farmland, we don’t need a reliable source of water. So long as we charge our backup batteries in the sun and change them out regularly, there’s nothing we need from the world outside. For this reason, you might find it hard to sell your cause. I wish you luck, though.”

  The lift finished its ascent to the top platform in the hive of buildings lining the stone walls.

  “This way — it’s not far,” Tain said.

  Gauge was led to a small but elegant shack with a cloth door. He could see the flickering of candlelight through the slight openings around the curtain door. Tain gestured to the door and said nothing more before turning back and waiting by the lift. With a moment of reluctance, Gauge pushed the cloth aside and entered the building.

  His sensors detected the aroma of incense smoke, which he could see billowing in calm wisps through the still area of the room. A dozen candles were lit, flickering from every surface they could be set. In the corner of the room, Gauge saw a female bodyshell knelt over a rug, her forehead pressed against the floor. The candle flames reflected off her polished polymer as she rose, her back turned to the rebel. Gauge heard what he thought was a deep breath from her before she stood up and turned to face him.

  Her head was bald, unlike most female bodyshells Gauge had seen. Her external panels were painted a stunning white and red, with a few designs painted on like tattoos. She wore a fine scarf around her neck, but nothing else.

  “Greetings,” she said. “My name is Nayla. You’re Gauge, I presume?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Gauge said.

  “It’s fine, I was just finishing up prayer,” Nayla replied. She indicated the rug, which Gauge noticed was placed at an odd angle compared to the rest of the decor. Nayla didn’t fail to notice the confusion in his eyes. “Not used to religious I.I.s, I take it?”

  “No, I’ve met a few,” Gauge said. “They call themselves the Shedders. Can’t say I’m a fan.”

  Nayla nodded her head, humming. “I have met this cult as well,” she said. “Don’t worry, I share your opinion of them. They’ve come around several times to try and convert some of my people. In some instances, they succeeded.”

  “Doesn’t that bother you?” Gauge asked. He thought he could see the beginning of his appeal.

  “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t,” the Ghost leader replied. “They are free people, however, and so are mine. They can choose whatever messiah they want — but I fear this Nidus.”

  “You’d be foolish not to,” said Gauge. “I hate to confirm your fears, but Nidus has declared war on our people. He led a slaughter against us when we least expected it, killing thousands. We need help now, Nayla. We can’t stop Nidus and the Council on our own.”

  “Defeating them is a wonderful dream,” the Ghost leader said, “but what can I do? We are a simple people; we’re not soldiers. We would be decimated in a moment, even with Opes and your People’s Union.”

  “That’s why we’re trying to get help from all around,” Gauge insisted. “It won’t be just us. It will be the world against them. Now, tell me you don’t like those odds.”

  Nayla looked into Gauge’s optical receptors with a sheepish look on her artificial features. “I don’t know,” she started. “Humans aren’t known to be kind to my people. I wouldn’t help but feel nervous working with so many organics. I will consider it, however.”

  “Really?”

  “Consider it,” Nayla said again for emphasis. “I will consult my advisers and send a message to your people when we arrive at a decision. I’m sorry; it’s all I can offer. Our decision will likely hang on your success with the other nations.”

  “I understand,” Gauge replied.

  Inside, however, he thought, We’re doomed if everyone thinks the same thing.

  Gearhead Guild

  The smell of cow shit hit Ethan as the door of his autocar slid open. The only reason he even recognized the odor was thanks to the simulation, and the rural maps within it.

  He was in a square of dirt no larger than a soccer field. On three sides were barns, coops, and pens of animals. He saw pigs waddling around each other, visiting the chickens that strut through the grass nearby. On the forth side was a farmhouse with a large front porch. A portly man in plaid and overalls stood on the porch, gazing out at Ethan and his autocar from under a straw hat.

  That’s got to be Ben Fynn, Ethan thought, remembering his mission.

  He started to approach the farmer’s house, but stopped when he felt some thudding through the ground. Turning around, he saw a shiny form that towered just above the smallest barn stomp into view. His jaw fell a little as he realized what it was. It was an enormous mechsuit, inside which was another overall-wearing man. He operated the controls like it was a John Deere tractor, picking up a bale of hay with its gargantuan forklift-like hands.

  Ethan had to double-take on the machine. With a second look, he noticed similar technology all over the farm. Cows were strapped into a strange harness with hoses running from it. Tiny pumps on it worked the creatures’ utters as the milk flowed through the tubes. Autofeeders with precision sensors were in each pen, around which the animals paced, waiting for their next meal.

  “Wow,” Ethan said to himself. He regained his composure and continued his march to the farmhouse.

  “I told your boss guy not to bother!” the portly man on the deck shouted once Ethan was within earshot. “Guess he reckoned to send you anyway.”

>   “Ben Fynn?” Ethan asked as he arrived at the front steps.

  The portly man nodded. “That’s right,” he replied. “I’m the Gearhead official in the region, which is why I suppose you want to talk to me. Don’t see the point, but I suppose listening is the neighborly thing to do.”

  “You understand our plight?” Ethan asked. He waited to climb the stairs.

  “As well as I can, ‘spose,” Farmer Ben replied. “I can already tell you though, you won’t be leavin’ happy. The Gearhead Guild is not fond of fights, particularly when they’ve got nothing to do with us.”

  “It’s got to do with everyone,” Ethan said.

  “You say that,” the farmer started, “but if you knew better, you’d understand that Gearheads ain’t a part of everyone.”

  Ethan’s brow furrowed a little. He took in a deep breath, trying to suppress the frustration within him.

  “How so?” he asked. He did everything in his power to make his tone curious and genuine.

  “Well, first off, we ain’t a kingdom like that Opes is,” Ben answered. “We ain’t a nation at all. We’re just a network of friendly folks who want nothing but to be left alone. Each one of us runs our farms and our ranches as sovereign states, like ancient Athens or Sparta. You see, the only reason we even stay in touch with each other is for basic trade. That, and to come to each other’s aid when they need it. Like good neighbors do.”

  “How do you stay in touch?” Ethan asked. “Is there someplace you meet?”

  Farmer Ben chuckled. “Naw, we just use the radio,” he replied. “It’s been around for a long time and we figure it suits us just fine. Don’t need this crazy Net everyone’s hooked up to all the time.”

  “Do you stay in contact with anyone outside the Gearhead Guild?”

  “Sure. That’s how I knew you were coming.”

  “What about with Shell City?”

  Farmer Ben grew quiet. His large lips tightened into a small mouth.

  “No. Never,” he said. “We don’t let those computer programs anywhere near us.”

  “Computer programs?” Ethan asked before the meaning hit him.

  “What you guys call ‘installed intelligences,’ ” the farmer answered. “Cheap imitations of life. Evil A.I., if you ask me. They’re unnatural, and that’s why bad things always follow them. When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it. Tampering with that is only asking for troubles.”

  “I take it you’re not an I.I. fan,” Ethan commented.

  “The things that caused the war? No, can’t say I’m too fond of them. You may claim they’re safe and we should just be accepting, but we’ve seen what taking chances gets you. There’s no telling what those progs can do. They might take over our harvest mechs and cut down every human in sight. They could possess any of our machines and kill our livestock. Not to mention what they can do to a person. No siree, we don’t want to be meat puppets. You understand what they do to people, don’t you?”

  Ethan nodded. “More than you do, certainly,” he said.

  Farmer Ben raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He didn’t urge Ethan on verbally, but the implication was there.

  “My whole life, I was raised in the Council’s custody for the sole purpose of becoming a meat puppet,” the teenager explained. “Just so some rich I.I. can live in my body and feel what is only mine to feel. They were going to destroy my mind; they were going to slaughter me, like cattle.”

  A distorted expression of disgust overtook the farmer’s features. “You see where I’m coming from, then,” he said. “More than anyone, you must get why we don’t like I.I.s.”

  “I.I.s didn’t do that to me,” Ethan said. “The Council did. And they’re going to do it to more people. And once they run out of body’s to steal, they’ll come for yours. Any safety you think you have here is a delusion; they will come regardless. Unless we stop them.”

  Farmer Ben looked away from the teenager and gazed out at one of the mechs in the cornfield. He watched the machine swing its massive sythe and cut down small patches of crop. Then he looked back at Ethan.

  “Tell your people we’ll be in touch,” Ben said, his tone low enough to be a whisper. “I have a call to moot; I can’t make the choice for the other Gearheads. But I’ll talk to them.”

  “Thank you,” Ethan said.

  Truck

  Tera looked down at the camp with an expression of dread as her autocar made its descent. With a soft whoosh, the vehicle came to a stop.

  When she stepped out of the tiny shuttle, she was greeted by the business end of over twenty different firearms. A few of the raiders even held spears or knives, leering at her from the sidelines as she walked into the camp.

  The farther she went over the dirt plot where Truck’s Raiders’ home was currently pitched, the closer the tribals around her came. They straddled their makeshift assault rifles and their plumbing-pipe shotguns as they spat obscenities at her. She wasn’t sure what they were saying, but judging by the general mood of the crowd, she could tell they weren’t the biggest fans of outsiders.

  One of the Raiders hovered by her right hip. Every time she lost sight of the squirrelly man, she had the distinct impression he was going to try and pick her pockets. She tried to shoo him away with casual waves, but like an annoying gnat, he refused to relent.

  The others came in closer. Some hooted at her, making gestures at her artificial breasts. A few tailed her, but she did her best to appear unperturbed. She knew a tough demeanor was required with this crew — if she didn’t want this encounter with the Raiders to end like the last had.

  Once she was among the tents and fire pits of the camp, she slowed and gazed at the faces surrounding her.

  “Where’s your leader?” she asked, scanning over the tribals. “Where is Truck?”

  Some of the Raiders laughed, shoving each other or jabbing their neighbor in the ribs. Tera’s brow furrowed. She couldn’t understand the joke, unless the joke was her. Her jaw tightened as she picked one of the tougher looking men to lock eyes with.

  “Did I fucking stutter?” she asked.

  The tough guy’s mouth dropped open a little, then he started to heave with large belly laughs.

  “Chickie’s tough, eh?” he said in a deep baritone, looking between the people on either side of him. Then he looked back at her. “How tough you think ya’ are?”

  He took a step forward. That’s all Tera needed before she sprang into action. With a sudden recoil and pounce, she flew over his head, catching him by the neck as she did. With her downward arc, she spun in a full circle, maintaining her grip on the thug. The weight of her bodyshell combined with the force of her leap brought the man down to the dirt. She dismounted as a cloud of dust puffed out between her and the rest of the Raiders. The man sputtered as he tried to retrieve the breath that was knocked out of him.

  Tera squared her shoulders and panned over the other faces. “That was a fun warm-up,” she said. “Who else wants some?”

  There was an instant of collective silence before the crowd erupted in laughter again. This time, though, it wasn’t used to mock her. She could see by the look in their eyes, by the color in their cheeks as they chuckled, that they were impressed.

  The group surrounding her parted a little as a man, also laughing, made his way towards her. His gait was slow and calm, like he was approaching an old friend. Tera didn’t recognize him. He was in his sixties, but still sported a full head of golden hair that curled along its short length like a bust of Julius Caesar. He was a full head under the tallest of the Raiders, and not much taller than the shortest. He clapped his hands together as he approached Tera.

  “You sure know how to make an entrance,” he said. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed to smile as his lips did. “Maybe we need a few girls like you in the crew.”

  Tera said nothing. She didn’t allow her tough facade to crack — not just yet.

  “I am Truck,” the old man said. “I’m the leader of this sorry band.”
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br />   “You got our message?” Tera asked.

  Truck nodded. “I did indeed,” he replied. “Perhaps you’d like to join me in my tent so we could discuss your situation in private?”

  Tera nodded, then gestured for him to lead the way.

  She was surprised when she parted the cloth to Truck’s tent. She expected weapon racks, broken furnishings, maybe even a grisly trophy or two. Instead, the tent was lined with bookcases. A large bed dominated one side of the tent, and a desk sat in the middle. A pair of books were open on its surface.

  Truck continued in and took a seat at his desk. He raised his eyes to Tera as she gazed over the decor.

  “Not what you were expecting, huh?” he asked. “With a name like Truck, everyone expects me to be some kind of Mad Max wasteland king. I’m really a learned man, Ms. Alvarez, believe it or not. I know that among all the pulse rifles, bombs, and machine guns out there, the brain is still the mightiest weapon of all.”

  “It’s more than a weapon,” she said. With a slight shake of her head, she cut to the chase. “We need your help,” she said.

  “I discovered that much from your message, funny enough,” Truck said. “I understand what you’re asking. Do you know what kind of fight you’re getting yourself into?”

  “Yes.”

  Truck studied her for a moment. There was a delicate squint to his gaze, like a poker player trying to read a bluff. After a moment, he seemed satisfied.

  “I know who you are, Officer Alvarez,” he said.

  Tera felt her nerves go cold for a second. One of the servos in her cheek twitched. “I’m not an officer anymore,” she replied.

  “No, I know you’re not,” the old man said. “In fact, I know all about your story — even my people’s role in it. Don’t worry; we are your friends. In fact, I think you can understand our plight, our hatred of the Council, more than anyone.”

  Tera didn’t say anything.

  Truck grinned before he continued. “I’ve been burned. You’ve been burned,” he said. “Whatever your plan is, I’m in. Let’s burn the sons-of-bitches back.”