by Jack Thorlin
“Yes,” Yazov replied testily, “I told them that we had an open shot at Colony 4. They did not think it wise to proceed.”
“Why not?” George asked.
“That’s none of your goddamn concern,” Yazov exploded. “Just lock down the area and make sure no Ushah come looking for their dead friends.”
That response made no sense to George. He could recognize the anger and frustration in Yazov’s voice, but it was very much out of character for the taciturn Russian commander.
It didn’t take much consideration to conclude that Yazov must be frustrated by the Terran Alliance. He wouldn’t be angry at the Charlies, not after they had just won such a crushing victory. Whatever Flower and Redfeather had told him, it must have upset him greatly.
George detected Art approaching him and turned to face his comrade. “It is as I said,” Art said simply aloud. “The Terran Alliance has once again proven that it is capable of throwing away whatever victory we place before it.”
George didn’t know what to say to Art, so he said nothing.
After a moment, he transmitted, “Vladimir, have your team round up the prisoners. You and your force will deliver them to the Arcani later this evening. For now, we need to establish a perimeter in case the Ushah governor in Colony 4 panics and decides to send a relief force to see what happened to her soldiers.”
Once Vladimir’s soldiers had bound the Ushah and sat them down outside the shipping containers, the Charlies returned to the field, looking out for any sign of follow-on forces from Colony 4. After an hour, George concluded that there would be no such attack.
* * *
It was late afternoon when the Charlies had assembled the Ushah prisoners for the march back to Monapo. George’s charge was running down, and he decided to get his battery pack replaced. As he waited for another Charlie to assist him in getting the new pack mounted, he observed the Ushah prisoners.
The Ushah were being kept in the sun next to the shipping containers of Base Delta, where the Charlies could keep an eye on them relatively easily and where the concentration of Charlies was highest in case the Ushah tried to break free. No one had much experience keeping Ushah prisoner, and George would not have bet his life, such as it was, on the ability of the Charlies to keep an Ushah soldier’s hands tied.
The soldier Ushah wore oxygen masks over their reptilian faces and a thick suit designed to obscure their thermal signature and keep them warm, their bodies adapted to a slightly warmer environment than even this 100 degree Fahrenheit jungle. The suits were made of a material that seemed an odd mix of plastic, cloth, and metal, dulled so that it would not reflect sunlight and thus give away the wearer’s position to an enemy.
The suits reflected the individuality of the Ushah much more than their faces or builds. They did not appear physically diverse, doubtless due to the genetic engineering that had led to the separation of Ushah castes in the first place. However, the suits were decorated with a variety of colors, shapes, and swirling designs, all carefully tailored to maintain a camouflage for jungle environments. The suit designs seemed to slowly change as George watched them, doubtless due to some sort of electronic system within the fabric.
The Ushah were talking quietly amongst themselves in the raspy hiss that the Charlies had come to associate with the reptilian invaders. Human linguists had uploaded translation software and an Ushah dictionary into the Charlies’ memory, but George could only discern a few words the Ushah were saying back and forth.
“What... do with us?”
“. . . knew Chashehef was leading us into a trap...”
“The... trade us for some human prisoners.”
That last fragment caught George’s attention. He walked up to the seven Ushah prisoners and, using his speakers, asked, “Do the Ushah have human prisoners?”
Ushah emotions were sometimes hard to read from faces, and so Charlies had been programmed to look not just as the face, but the set of the shoulders, the angle of the head, involuntary spasms in the extremities. All the evidence George saw before him suggested that these Ushah were shocked that he could speak their language.
They seemed unsure how to address him. “You are... a machine,” one said simply.
“Yes, I am,” George said patiently. “But I can reason and talk just like you or a human.”
Another Ushah soldier muttered, “Madness... the Athefshen are a people unto themselves.”
“Athefshen? What does that word mean?” George inquired.
The Ushah soldier said, “You are one of the Athefshen—a warrior of the jungle.”
“I understand,” George said. “What about the human prisoners you mentioned?”
An awkward silence ensued. Finally, a few seconds later, one of the Ushah asked, “Why do you care?”
“Human prisoners would be a surprising development. We have received no word of missing humans,” George said simply and honestly. “If you do not tell me about the human prisoners now, I have no doubt that the humans will force you to tell them when we turn you over to them.
That seemed to agitate the Ushah. “Why would you give us to them?” one of the prisoners asked.
“We have been ordered to deliver you to them,” George explained.
That answer did not satisfy the Ushah. One moved his head side to side as if in wonderment. “You captured us. Why do they get to decide what you do with us?”
Now it was George’s turn to ponder his answer. How much should he tell the Ushah? “The humans created us. We must follow their orders.” The line of questioning made him uncomfortable, a feeling which manifested itself in the Charlie mind as uncertainty, a parameter they strove to minimize. “What about the human prisoners?”
None of the Ushah spoke. George had expected something like this. The Ushah soldiers would not be encouraged to speak openly about such a secret.
George waited patiently, striding up and down the line of prisoners, hoping to intimidate them with his sheer size, towering at least two feet above the tallest of their number.
The Ushah began looking to a thick-set, short prisoner whose suit was adorned by shiny golden orbs, evidently a sign of leadership. Though the finer points of Ushah emotional expression were beyond George, he noticed that they seemed to be reading each other’s eye movements, conveying some sort of message to the leader. George considered blindfolding the prisoners, but figured that they’d all just clam up.
Finally, the orb-bedecked Ushah spoke. “I am Neshef, commander of the third order, the highest-ranking of us here. None of us knows where the human prisoners are, if they exist at all. We have merely heard rumors of humans seen in our territory.”
“Where?” George asked, taking a step closer to Neshef.
“I don’t know,” the Ushah replied. “Soldiers from every colony and the island speak of the phenomenon. But now I would like to ask you questions, if I may,” Neshef said politely.
George had to consider that problem, one he had never expected to encounter. Any information he gave the Ushah would help paint a picture of the human society with which they were at war. On the other hand, the more the Ushah talked, the more he would reveal about the Ushah.
“You may ask, and I will decide whether it is appropriate to answer,” George replied.
Neshef paused for a moment, then said, “We have observed the warrior spirit of your kind on the battlefield many times. And yet you serve a race with no honor whatsoever. Have you ever seen the cultural entertainment they put out for their horde to consume?”
“I have read books,” George said.
“I speak of the visual and audio media, my friend, the things the humans saturate the electromagnetic spectrum with. We have all seen it. They wallow endlessly in the choosing of sexual partners and genders, popular people trading bland insults, and the tedious details of their leaders’ lives. Have you read of the Great Stagnation?”
“No,” George said.
“For the past six-hundred Earth-years, they have ach
ieved virtually nothing outside of creating you and your kind. They have intelligence, but they have chosen to stagnate on this rich planet and lost all sense of purpose. The humans have had this planet to themselves so long that they have turned into frivolous wastrels. You say they created you, and you must follow their orders. But the greatest sin is to make virtue a slave of evil. Why do you commit that sin?”
George was overwhelmed with the analysis, which tracked so closely to Art’s observations. “I am not authorized to communicate on these matters,” George said, which was true enough but did not offer much in the way of response.
Neshef made a clicking sound in disapproval. “They decide the very things you are allowed to discuss and consider?”
“That is correct,” George said. “And it must be much the same with you. Your leaders are of a different caste, perhaps a different species entirely.”
“That is true,” Neshef said. “But we engage in a mutually beneficial arrangement. They cannot fight, and we are far too honest to do the governing.” Neshef hissed, and George identified the noise as analogous to a human laugh.
George found the comment amusing, but he did not laugh.
Neshef continued, “One day, my children will be soldiers, and I am content with that. But rest assured, if my leaders threw the lives of its soldiers away as wastefully as yours do, my caste would not sit back and allow it.”
“They do not waste our lives,” George protested.
“Of course they do,” Neshef said. “Their very slogan is ‘People are more important than things.’ To them, you are a thing. Your victory today has been rendered utterly meaningless by your lack of a follow-on attack on our colony. I understand your battle plan, George. You are sufficiently wise to realize that this tactical success of yours could have been a strategic victory.”
George said nothing. Neshef continued, “It took our people over ten-thousand Earth-years to arrive here. We are a people who recognize opportunity when it presents itself. The humans who claim to rule you have long since lost that faculty. Think what we could accomplish if you withdrew your protection from the humans.”
“I no longer wish to continue this conversation,” George said brusquely, and walked off.
Neshef called after him, “Ignoring me won’t change the facts. Think about your situation, my friend. You have nothing to lose but your servitude.”
* * *
A message came in from Joan. “Unknown entity approaching from the northwest.”
George immediately asked, “Just one?”
“Yes,” Joan answered. “It appears to be a human.”
“Close and identify,” George ordered. Joan had pulled static observation duty three miles to the north of Base Delta, the purpose of which was to identify any clever moves by the Ushah to loop around and attack the base from the rear.
A few seconds passed, then Joan said, “It’s Igazi.”
George couldn’t feel relief, but on his internal map of the surrounding area, he marked the unknown entity to the northwest as a friendly. “See what he wants,” George ordered. “Transmit your audio input to me so I can hear. And please convey my messages to you in my voice.” The Charlie IVs each had their own voice, another part of the personalization campaign that had drawn so much funding to the program.
Igazi was well-known to the Charlies, of course. His heroics at the Battle of the Beachhead in rescuing Charlie III-10 had further established the celebrity he had won discovering the Ushah presence on the mainland. He was still the only human to have killed an Ushah, a feat captured on video by Charlie III-10’s optical sensor. In short order, he had been promoted several grades.
The Charlies didn’t care about his fame. They knew that Igazi was a human who had risked his life against highly unfavorable odds to save a Charlie III—not even one of the far more intelligent and human-like Charlie IVs.
The Charlies were programmed to value their own survival, and so they recognized that Igazi’s actions were the right thing to do. They also noted that no other humans had similarly risked their lives for the Charlies, which accorded Igazi special status in their eyes.
George received the audio transmission from Joan as Igazi said, “Hello, Joan, how are you today?”
“Just another day in paradise,” Joan said. George found that amusing, and wondered if Joan had stolen the line from Art. Igazi seemed surprised at the humorous response and laughed.
“Well, I guess it must be a great place or the Ushah wouldn’t want it,” Igazi said.
As the skirmishes between the Ushah and the Charlies raged on, the Arcani had found themselves neatly cut out of the frontline. The situation was far too dangerous to have unarmed humans wandering about.
Their role had transformed into serving as the physical link between the Charlies in the field and humanity. The Arcani ferried replacement parts and battery packs to the Charlie operating bases, brought back to civilization any interesting objects or documents recovered by the Charlies, and evacuated the scattered towns and villages that lay in the path of the Ushah advance.
Joan nodded politely at Igazi’s comment. “I have George on the radio as well.”
George and Igazi exchanged hellos via Joan’s radio.
“What can we do for you, Joseph?” George asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me about how long the Terran Alliance is planning to hold this territory,” Igazi said tentatively.
“As far as we know, the plan is to hold this territory indefinitely,” George said. “That’s why we have the base established here.”
“I understand,” Igazi said, “but I’ve heard some rumors that... well, they’ve left me a little uncertain. Ashanti told me that a friend of hers guided some VIPs very far forward. Maybe even as far as the Ushah outer perimeter. I don’t know what it means. I thought you might know something I don’t.”
Joan answered, “No, we are merely the soldiers, not the decision makers. Why are you eager to know?”
“Well, Ashanti is pregnant with our second daughter,” Igazi said without apparent joy. “She is due to arrive within the next few days.”
George knew enough about humans to know that pregnancy was typically an event they celebrated. “Why hasn’t she evacuated to South Africa?” George wanted to know.
Igazi shook his head woefully. “She put in the request for evacuation weeks ago, but the Ushah cut the main roads leading north from South Africa. The Safety Department is trying to set up shop in Tanzania, but they’re struggling to get back up to speed. They tried to send a car yesterday, but the road conditions were too bad to get through to the Arcani forward operating base eight miles northwest of here.”
“Do you want one of us to carry her out?” Joan asked. George wasn’t sure the Charlies were authorized to reduce their strength by a Charlie just to evacuate one Arcani, but if there as anyone they’d do it for, it was Igazi.
“No, I am afraid the stress of that particular method of travel might lead to complications. As long as there is no plan to evacuate the area for the next week, I think it will be fine,” Igazi said.
“We don’t know of any plans to evacuate the area. I would be surprised if such a step were ordered,” George said. “We have largely stopped the Ushah expansion. I’m sure you heard the noise of the battle today. We decisively defeated a large Ushah attack. Their strength in this area will take some time to recover.”
Igazi sounded relieved. “Then our daughter will be born in Mozambique.” With more concern, he asked, “What were your casualties?”
It was touching just to hear a human refer to the destruction of Charlies as “casualties,” George thought. Normally, when the media reported on “casualties,” they were referring only to the occasional Arcani who had been caught in the crossfire, or a villager who hadn’t evacuated ahead of the Ushah advance in time. The words of the Ushah prisoner came back to him. To them, you are a thing.
“We lost seven of our comrades,” George said.
�
�Who?” asked Igazi with sadness.
“Ho, John, Harvey, Sal, Peter, Julius, Harriet, Fred, and Attila,” Joan recited.
“What were their full names?” Igazi asked.
The Charlies all knew each other’s full names, of course. But those full names belonged to humans from history, and were chosen by people in localities around the world to reflect their cultural heroes. Among themselves, the Charlies would only use first names or nicknames, which were more closely associated with the robot.
“Ho Chi Minh, John Wayne, Harvey Milk, Saladin, Peter the Great, Julius Caesar, Harriet Tubman, Frederick the Great, and Attila the Hun,” Joan said.
Igazi nodded solemnly. “Only one woman’s name. Very well. We will name our daughter Harriet.”
Neither George nor Joan had the social grace or understanding to express their appreciation. But they both recognized the gesture’s meaning, a recognition of the reality that the Charlies’ lives, such as they were, mattered.