The battle must have been epic from the size of the debris field. I concentrate my power to begin a methodical search of likely targets. My best hope is finding a ship or armored fighting vehicle of my creators. I move forward only to face one disappointment after another as targets turn out to be simply melted slag or machinery that is of no use to me.
My luck finally changes. I experience joy at the sight of a Creator AFV, a tracked and armored leviathan. The front of the great machine is stove in. It would take a nuclear weapon to deform its armor and even now there is considerable radioactivity on the immense mobile fortress. I make my way up the side, hoping to find an open hatch. I am in luck; one presents itself near ground level. I force myself in with difficulty; the ooze is harder to push through in the confined space. An interior hatch slows me, but with the aid of a lever I find inside, I crack this hatch too, heading for the engineering deck.
The crew’s remains are not present. Graves Registration troops may have removed the bodies, or perhaps the crew fled when the fortress was hit. The engine compartment is intact though damaged. I approach the reactor and am relieved to find the fuel is still present and potent. Greedily, I extract the high-grade material and press it into my body, letting my permeable membranes pass it through while filtering the tar and water. Its quality makes me giddy. I compress as much as I can into a chamber that I make in my torso to create a reserve. Given the Guild’s enmity, we may not be able to return here or even remain on this world. The thought spins the beginning of a plan. A change of tactics is indicated. We have tried escape, evasion and defense; perhaps a direct offense is indicated.
My self-repair kicks into high gear with all this new power, but there are limitations to my damage control and what I can construct within my body. The technology of my creation is far above the AFV, more on the level of a starship. The malleable ceramics and metal of my chassis cannot be repaired by any Confed technology. I can only manufacture small amounts of my chassis material inside my body, patches yes, certainly not an arm.
I exit the hull of the AFV high on its side. I can swim again. Until I had regained the full use of my legs, I did not realize quite how much I feared uselessness and being unable to protect my friends. Relief makes me feel buoyant. My sensors are back to full power and I can now better scan the battlefield. Now I see additional smashed AFVs and even Creator fighters and patrol boats. A picture of the battle emerges for me. An Infestor landing force sought a beachhead here. Our blocking forces hit them hard and we carried the battle as our force’s bodies were recovered, but we did not hold the battlefield or have leisure to salvage machinery. Lucky for me or the precious and expensive fuel would have been recovered.
The Infestor ships lay crushed and shattered in the center of the battlefield in what was once a river valley. I orient myself on the one point that I know, the Infestor landing ship.
As I swim over the battlefield I spy a humanoid form on the bottom. Excitement floods me; could this be one of my series? I circle down and land by it. Disappointment awaits; this is not an M7 or even an earlier model. It is an enemy machine, an Infiltrator. For a brief time the enemy made machines that looked like my Creators, before we developed countermeasures more than a century prior to my own manufacture.
Still, the machine’s technology vastly exceeds anything I can find in the present day. I extend an atomic torch through my fingertip and cut a limb free. The tar around me burns but at too low a temperature to bother me. Perhaps with time I may be able to fashion it into something useful. I extrude some loops in my back and place the severed limb in them.
I look over the darkling plain, likely for the last time. This is my ancient past, irrelevant to me in this life. I bid farewell to Infestors and Creators alike and head for the surface with my three good limbs.
***
We remain in the jungle, hiding in the Murch encampment with Faroa, Jaelle’s friend. I use some of their remaining high-tech equipment as well as my own internal factories to fabricate tools and replacement parts, repairing myself to my precrash status, except for my left arm. There I aim my efforts at the ancient arm recovered from the Infestor infiltration unit. It is a measure of my desperation that I even consider mating a piece of hostile alien technology to my chassis. I find the arm to be in good condition and search it for any hidden traps or codes until I have reasonable certainty that it is safe. Like me, it is made of non-reactive ceramics and metal and is immune to rust or other chemical corrosion. Ironically, the tar is similar to the fluids I would have been stored in between missions.
I design all manner of interfaces in order to control the arm. It will not have the power or flexibility of my original arm. Nor does it have a built-in fusion torch, flechette dispensers, or other accessories, though I am able to add palm blades and a number of other fine, small tools. It will not have the feedback of my original limbs. In a movement of amusement it occurs to me that, like Wrik, I am now right-handed. Still, I have restored 50% of function and 75% of strength. My left arm will appear identical now that I have reworked the shape and mass of the Infestor arm.
I raise my new arm over my head. For now at least, it balances me and gives me additional capability. Perhaps it is merely vanity, but I am relieved to once again be symmetrical and complete.
After completing the final test, I go to meet my comrades. I find them together as usual, seated on a parapet over the Tar Sea. Wrik jumps to his feet when he sees me. His face is worn and anxious as usual.
“Maauro! How’s the arm?”
“Most functions are restored,” I respond, exaggerating out of concern for his morale.
Jaelle, who is always more reserved around me, nods approvingly. Whatever her true feelings are, she recognizes that her survival is dependent on my combat strength.
“I am repaired and you are both rested and recovered.” At least somewhat I think to myself. I must remember how volatile the emotional state of biologicals is. Jaelle has lost a parent-child bond. Wrik has lost all his recently hard won security.
“It is time to consider our future,” I say, sitting on the rough-hewn stone of the parapet. Wrik and Jaelle also sit.
“Future,” he says bitterly. “Do we have one?”
Even Jaelle looks downcast now.
“We make one,” I respond, “but not here.” I realize with a mild shock that I have assumed leadership of our little unit. It is an unusual feeling—I was made to execute orders.
“What do you mean?” Jaelle asks, brushing a lock of her thick hair out of her eyes.
“If we remain here, in contact with enemy forces, we must inevitably suffer casualties at best and destruction at worst. We must leave Kandalor, vanish into space and elude the Guild.”
Wrik gives me a weary look. “To do that we have to book passage on a commercial liner. The Guild would pick us off long before we could get clear.”
“Correct. We must therefore go on the offensive. We must seize Dusko, wring out of him the information and assets that we need.”
Both stare at me in astonishment.
“Your father told us of this Collector. There is a small interstellar ship at the port bearing the Collector’s agent. That ship is not staying long, which means it is likely refueled and reprovisioned. We will take the ship and Dusko and vanish into Confederate space.”
***
I stared at Maauro, my mouth hanging open. “Kidnap Dusko? Steal a starship?”
“Is that all?” Jaelle asked.
“It is enough for starters,” Maauro replies, missing or ignoring the sarcasm. “I realize that the odds are substantial, but I believe you still underestimate my capabilities.
“I also believe that offense trumps defense. Dusko shows a desire to engage in combats that have been expensive for him and unprofitable. I believe organization factors within the Guild, as well as perhaps his injured pride, are causing him to pursue us. He will n
ot stop, and in any battle of attrition the Guild will win, at least to the point of killing both of you, who are more vulnerable than I.
“We must gain the initiative by altering the battle with a surgical decapitation strike at the enemy.”
“How…how would we pull this off?”
“We have a considerable supply of captured weapons supplied by our dead adversaries. I will reconstruct an armspac for myself. You should select those weapons you are familiar with. We have been missing now for several weeks. About now the enemy should be relaxing from high alert. They may suspect we are dead, or in hiding. They will not expect an attack on the enemy CP.”
“CP?” Jaelle asks.
“Forgive me,. Command Post.
“We will proceed back to Vanceport, avoiding all of our old locations. Once we are back in the city, I will infiltrate the net and gather Intel on Dusko until we have enough for a strike.”
I look at Jaelle and she nods. “We’re in.”
“Excellent,” Maauro nods. “Now that we are repaired and rested, let us take our leave of the Murch and move within striking distance of Dusko’s CP.”
I consider. “There’s a flophouse run by some Hanoians on the north side of town. They have no use for the Guild. They belong to a Tong.”
“A what?” Maauro asked.
“It’s like the Guild, only you have to be a particular type of human to belong to it. It’s an old form of organization, predating spaceflight. So they wouldn’t be friendly to Dusko.”
“They wouldn’t help us,” Jaelle stated.
“No. I am just saying they wouldn’t know or care what Dusko wants. We land after dark and rent one of the cheaper rooms. Maauro, you can gather intelligence from there and decide what our next move is.”
“I am impressed, Wrik. These are excellent tactical points.”
I snorted a laugh. “Glad to be of some use, finally.”
She gave me a curious look but said nothing.
We trekked over to the Elder’s compound. Farora and the elder were inside at a long table. The younger Murch stood as we came in. Jaelle walked past me and exchanged arm clasps with Farora; I was surprised by the flash of jealousy that stole through me. Then I looked over at Maauro and decided that I’d best keep a cap on that emotion.
“You are leaving?” the elder said.
“Yes,” Jaelle answered. “It’s time we flee this world. We are beset by enemies.”
“Don’t leave. We will shelter you here.”
I noted that it was not the elder who made that offer; again I suppressed that flash of jealously.
“Our enemies are numerous and professional,” Maauro interjected. “They will scour this area eventually, knowing that we had some connection and resources here. We do not wish to expose you to this danger. With us gone, their efforts in this direction will terminate.”
The elder looked at her and nodded. “Just so.”
“We may yet meet again,” Jaelle said to the downcast young Murch. “If I ever get established somewhere safe, I will not forget my friends here, their kindness and the risks that were run for me.”
“Fare well, my sister. Fare well and find a way to send word to us.” He looked over at Maauro and me. “Good luck to you both. Look after Jaelle, since we cannot.”
I nodded, realizing that I’d had more of a rival in the young Murch than I’d been aware of.
We load the aircar which has been refueled and reloaded, mostly through Maauro’s efforts after she created a workshop for it. The Murch give us gifts of food and clothes which we packed away. We’d need them if we survived.
A large crowd of Murch saw us off. We kept the goodbyes to a minimum and these were mostly directed to Jaelle. I was just her boyfriend as far as they were concerned. They’d remained wary of Maauro.
We took off low and slow under the Murch’s distortion field, running for an hour just over the treetops before we dared come up and gain altitude for the trip to the uplands with the spaceport. We doubted even Dusko had the resources to scan the planet seeking us, but did not want to hazard the Murch’s location. We passed the long trip back to Vanceport in silence, lost in our own thoughts.
We reached Vanceport under cover of darkness and landed near Reiri’s lodgings. The buildings were of a style I didn’t recognize, but assumed was traditional to the Hanoians. I found an underground lot nearby and tucked Tekala’s expensive aircar away in a corner and placed a tarp over it. It was thin disguise for an expensive ride but the best we could do.
I entered the Reiri’s shop to find the wizened, older woman sitting behind her counter as usual. I’d rented accommodations from her periodically when I was down on my luck. They weren’t fancy but no one messed with the Tong, so it was safe, so long as I paid old woman Reiri promptly.
“Ah, Wrik, you back?”
“For a week or so.”
“Cash in advance.”
“Of course.”
I paid the usual charge. “There are two women staying with me.”
She gave a lecherous laugh. “You big boy, huh?”
I gave a look of false modesty.
“One room, your business how many sleep in it. No noise.”
“No problem.”
I bought fresh food from the closest vendor and returned to find Maauro and Jaelle in the shadows nearby. I beckoned to them after opening the door on the ground-floor room I’d rented. They came in quickly, Maauro carrying a huge pack full of our supplies. I closed the door behind them. “Honey, we’re home.”
The food was welcome as was the rest. When morning came, I woke to find Maauro on the room comp. Her fingers had split into filaments and she’d infiltrated the computer.
I yawned. “How goes it?”
“I am amassing the tactical information we need. Dusko has placed significant barriers around his operations, but these are no match for me. I could crush them in seconds; the trick is to breach them unobserved and undetected. This takes time.”
But what Maauro meant by time wasn’t what I expected. A few hours later she rose. “I have a plan.”
Both Jaelle and I listened in rapt attention with alternating terror and hope.
“It’s suicide,” I said.
“It’s the only chance we have,” Maauro countered.
Night fell as we kitted up in dark clothing and readied our weapons. We’d left behind all but our most important possessions. We weren’t coming back, one way or the other.
I watched Maauro’s calm face as she loaded her new armspac, a refined version of the boxy weapon she’d taken on our first hunt for Jaelle. The Guild had been a source of better quality weapons for her adaptation.
It occurred to me that Maauro was doing this all for me, and I could not figure out why. She had options that biologicals did not. All she needed to do to escape the present situation was find a secure place and turn herself off for a hundred years. Her enemies would age and die in what would be an eye blink for her. Maauro could escape in time, where we could only escape in distance. So why was she doing this? I thought of her as my friend ,but she was a machine. Could I ever really understand any “emotions” she had? Were they real or simulated?
I looked over my shoulder. Jaelle was still in the other room.
“Maauro?”
“Yes?”
“Why do you care about me?”
“Wrik, is this the time to discuss issues of being and existence?”
I just looked at her.
She sighed, and even that made me wonder if that was just part of a program to allow her to interact with me, and if that made any difference. Maauro only breathed to make sounds.
“We were thrown together by chance, welded together by enemy action and need. I have come to value you as you. You are part of my network, the original part in this time, in this new existence. Tho
ugh I was made and not born, I do feel. I do care, and I do remember you, foolish biological, running unprotected under fire to my aid on the asteroid. I thought you would have accepted this by now. After all, I believe you care for me.”
I reached across and put my hand on her arm, her original one. It was warm and slightly pliable. She continued to work on textures obviously to make her more pleasant to touch. This too, I knew she did for me, as no one else had ever laid a hand on her.
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight. “Never doubt it.”
She looked at me steadily, but with a hint of reproach in her huge eyes. “Then do not doubt me. I am not less than you that you should fail to have faith in me.” She patted my hand with her left arm to take the sting from the words. Her other hand felt only like cold metal.
I nodded.
Jaelle opened the door and we moved apart in an almost guilty motion. I smiled ruefully. There was still something odd in the dynamic of the three of us. I hoped we’d all live long enough to work it out. Jaelle placed her bag on the bed next to ours.
“Time to go,” Maauro said.
We exited the flophouse and piled into the old aircar that Jaelle had bought for us. The car was the sort of nondescript vehicle no one would look twice at in the seedier areas of the port. I let Maauro take the wheel. She’d spot any danger long before the rest of us.
We lofted over Vanceport. I looked down at the old city, with its mix of modern light and old gas and wood fires, the local spaceport section where I’d lived, the modern section with its shops and office towers and the Confederate legation. Then we were over the deep-space section of the spaceport where the shuttles and smaller interstellar vessels landed. A dozen needle-nosed ships of varying sizes sat fin down on the scarred concrete. A blocky vessel that looked like a flying safe meant that some Ribisan hydrogen breathers had landed.
Smaller aerospace craft like my poor, lost Sinner dotted the runaways at the outer edge of the port. We overflew long runaways limned in blue lights. A cargo flyer of some sort was rolling down one.
My Outcast State (The Maauro Chronicles Book 1) Page 13