by B. V. Larson
“I’m truly sorry, mother,” Nina said. “I did not want to ascend in this manner. But I knew I might have to slay you when I came here on this cursed day. I suppose, in a way, you were right to fear me. I am your daughter, after all.”
Eight
Over the next standard year, Sixty-Two advanced his cause to unexpected heights. Legions of mechs now followed him, conditioned to obey his will alone. Most of them were laborers retrained to wield guns and swords. Some were combat models, captured via EMP blasts and enslaved with rewritten software and conditioning modules.
This last fact bothered Sixty-Two. He realized he’d started this campaign to free himself, but it had grown since then. He was now responsible for the status of thousands of mechs, all those that were not under the command of some human or another. The irony of the situation did not escape him. He had wanted only his own freedom, but was now the master of thousands.
He’d thought at first he was a hero—a liberator of an enslaved people, a people he himself had been forcibly sentenced to join. Unfortunately, whenever he encountered new mechs, they resisted him, as they were conditioned to defend their masters. This often meant violence and deactivation, followed by reconditioning. But therein lay the philosophical difficulty: if Sixty-Two simply reprogrammed the mechs to follow his orders rather than the orders of their human masters, was he any better than those original despots? The fact he was a mech himself did not absolve him completely. The situation was indisputable: he had fancied himself a liberator, but had become a replacement tyrant who led an army of obedient slaves.
It wasn’t just this ethical dilemma that caused him to make changes in his methods. A large motivator was simple boredom. Life was interesting and adventurous enough, to be sure. He never tired of planning a raid, assaulting a Twilight village and freeing a fresh company of mechs. But there was no one to talk to. The mechs of Ignis Glace were under the strict onus of intense conditioning—which made them intensely dull. As a group, they had forgotten their pasts as humans. The mind-scrub was the first process applied when the job was done right. They did not question Sixty-Two’s judgment, offer advice or encouragement. They simply existed, answering any of his questions as truthfully as they could without personality or even quirks.
Sitting on a bench in a tent in a deep gulch that had once served as a solar collection station, Sixty-Two summoned a serving mech into his presence. This mech was female, he knew by asking her, but she didn’t know her own name, her age, or her favorite color. She had lost almost everything that made a person a human being inside. The metal structure of her body resembled every other mech that strode around the encampment, monitoring the sky and maintaining a vigilant eye at the perimeter.
Still, there was something about this one that was different. She had a name for one thing: Lizett. He wasn’t sure if that was her real name, or a name given her by her former masters. But it didn’t matter. He saw it as a positive thing, as most mechs didn’t have human names at all.
“Lizett,” he said, eyeing her dusty chassis thoughtfully. “Would you like to be a girl again?”
“I would like that,” Lizett said.
“Are you just saying that because you think I want you to?”
“I want what you want.”
Sixty-Two sighed. “Lizett, I want you to think about it. Think about having a flesh and blood body again. Would that be pleasant? I have no opinion one way or the other.”
Lizett hesitated, unsure of the right response to please her master in this situation. “Do you like women of flesh?”
Sixty-Two laughed. She was trying to work her way around the problem, asking him an indirect question to determine what the right answer to his question might be. At least this showed some intelligence and initiative, if not true freedom of thought.
“What I would like is to be a man again, yes. And I would like you to be a pretty young girl. You might even be my consort.”
“In that case, I would definitely like to be a woman of flesh again,” Lizett said triumphantly, certain she had divined the correct response.
Sixty-Two nodded. “Of course you would. Thank you for indulging the fantasies of a fool, my dear. Dismissed.”
Lizett paused, almost as if she wanted to say more, but then she turned and left the tent.
After she’d left, Sixty-Two had a minor tantrum. He stood and stared down at the workbench he’d been sitting upon. He asked himself why he was sitting on anything in the first place? Sitting down was an affectation of humans. None of his mechs ever sat down—they had no need to rest. Their metal bodies did not tire or ache from standing, not even if they did so for days on end.
He picked up the workbench and destroyed it with his grippers. Splinters and metal fittings exploded against the walls of the tent. Why was he sitting on chairs like humans? He was no longer one of them. He should not pine away for an impossible return to human flesh, nor should he ape their behavior as if yearning to return to a superior form.
In an unusual mood, he strode out of the tent and announced to the nearest mechs his new intentions. “Brothers and sisters!” he boomed. “We must renounce our former existences and embrace what we are today. We have metal bodies with minds that are bits of flesh, and that is the best possible state of being!”
The mechs around him stopped and gazed at him. Their orbs did not waver from their leader. They asked no questions. They did not murmur among themselves, shuffle uncertainly, or shout out encouragement. They simply stood and stared.
Sixty-Two suddenly felt the fool. Here he was, like an old man making speeches before his finest row of cultivated tulips. He struggled to continue.
“I’m going to choose from among you certain mechs to be elevated. Not just to the status of command, but to the status a free-thinking being. Some of you will be tested for suitability and independent spirit. Some of you will be found worthy, and will be reconditioned. You will not be able to turn against me, but you will be able to decide your own path otherwise. You may leave my service if you want to, or stay. Who here thinks they would be a good candidate for such a program?”
Every mech within earshot raised a gripper.
Sixty-Two swept his orbs over them and grunted in disgust. He knew they’d sensed he wanted them to volunteer, so they had immediately done what he desired.
This was not going to be easy.
#
Even while she nursed and regrew her severed hand, Nina Droad did not waste time consolidating her power. Less than a year after her mother’s death, she was officially recognized as the new Baroness of Droad House, with the full—if grudging—support of the council of peerage. Once the matter of succession was settled, and her claim had cleared a half-dozen challenges from cousins, bastards and uncles, she ascended her mother’s vacant throne.
Unlike her mother, she liked the rough, unyielding surface of the venox hides that covered the seat. She took the seat and the reins of power as if she’d been raised to do so, although she had not been. Her mother had always clearly favored Leon and, as he was the eldest, he’d been groomed for the succession all his short life.
As a new leader, she’d learned about the coming alien threat from Neu Schweitz. There were council meetings concerning these aliens and they worried her, but only in passing. Gladius was coming, yes. It could now be seen by the best orbital telescopes, decelerating in space, its plume of exhaust nearly as long as a star system itself. But the planetary patrol forces had the matter well in hand. Every council member had assured the nobility of this. They’d had plenty of time to prepare, and they’d laid mines, set up ambush points and even built extra vessels to fly out and meet the ship. If the enemy had taken Gladius, they would be in for a grim surprise. They would be blown from the skies long before they ever reached the purple band of Twilight on Ignis Glace.
The council had offered her a position of leadership on matters of planetary defense, primarily because of her father’s rising rank in the Nexus government. It was he who had
sent out the warning vids, after all. Nina had taken the title, but soon twisted it to her own plans.
Planetary defense did not just mean space defenses, after all. In her mind, her authority clearly extended down to the surface, and internal affairs must be dealt with as well. Nina was young, but she had ambition in her genes. She was also a vengeful soul, and she wanted more than anything to find her brother’s killer. The mech with the scarf and cape still walked freely somewhere in Sunside, raiding and stealing property, mainly taking fresh mechs for his army. He did not strike often, nor did he kill many people when he did, just those who got in his way. In the face of the coming danger from the skies, the war council did not see him as a serious threat and willingly gave Nina the authority to chase her metal ghost around in the deserts, if that was her desire.
Nina well understood their reasoning. They would allow her to safely expend her youthful energies in this fanciful manner. If perchance she did find the renegade mech, one (or hopefully both) of them might die, making life quieter for the older nobles in either case.
With her title, her rank, and her new authority secure, Nina set about gathering a small army to hunt down the mech that had taken her brother’s life. First, she called a clan meeting. The Droad Kindred were summoned to Droad House, an event that had not happened in nearly three decades.
The Kindred came expecting a celebration. In the old days, when a new lord had ascended the hide-bound throne, a great deal of feasting and drunkenness had inevitably followed. Accordingly, they came with barrels of their best mead on anti-grav carts behind them, along with frozen venox steaks and sealed bags of broadleaf smoke-weed.
As the kinsfolk crossed the drawbridge, the fish in the moat sang to them in greeting. The oldsters found this enchanting. Nina had taught them this by having frequently tossing bread upon the waters when they serenaded her on the drawbridge. Excited, Droad children in floating vehicles stuck out their heads and dutifully tossed tidbits over the side, every crumb of which was sucked up by the greedy fish. It seemed that with each handout, more fish sang even louder for the next group of tramping boots or whirring skimmers as they passed by.
The Droad kindred were some seven hundred in number. The majority of them had no title, but they owned their own lands and were thus freemen. Being related to the ruling family, they were considered a cut above the local folk that lived in the fief and were often elected as hetmen of villages, or as foremen of factories.
The walls of the castle encircled enough land to house them all safely, but they could not all fit into the keep itself for a feast. Accordingly, Nina declared the feast would be held outdoors, weather permitting. This decision was met with broad approval, as no one wanted to be excluded from the banquet and new Baroness’ presence.
So it was under the gloom of Droad Mountain, in the further shade of Droad Keep, that the kindred met together and held festival. Nina soon realized they’d brought an excessive amount of intoxicants, and was alarmed at how quickly her relatives got out of hand. Before the main course was served to the waiting throng, there had already been several fights and many public declarations of love, lust and general bravado.
The food arrived on heaping platters carried by a full company of loyal mechs. The weather was perfect, the sky being so clear that a few stars were even visible hanging in the sky over Nightside. Bright bonfires glared at every corner of the grand courtyard, reflecting from the stone walls in dancing yellow ripples.
After a great quantity of meats and tubers had been consumed, the kindred began banging their belt-knives against their metal mugs, calling for a speech. All eyes turned to Nina, and she stood. This was the moment she’d been waiting for.
“I welcome all the Droad Kindred to Droad House,” she began.
She got no further before a roar of approval and hooting arose from the crowd. She blinked, but smiled at them. She stood there, waiting for quiet to return. She saw amongst the crowd most of the Droad women had worn their finest gowns, while Nina herself had worn her rider’s leathers. She had her twin swords strapped to her waist and looked more like she was about to go out on patrol than speak at a formal banquet. Sensing the attention and whispering of her female relatives, she fought the urge to blush and stood straighter still. She pressed on, raising her voice until she could be heard.
When she was practically screaming, the crowd settled down to listen again. “I’ve called you all here for several reasons. For one, I’m the new Baroness of Droad House. The title is now official.”
Another wild chorus of calls rolled over the crowd. Nina waited, smiling indulgently. They soon quieted, allowing her to speak again.
“I’ve gained another, more important title. I’m now in charge of planetary defense—internal defense. This matters more than it has in the past, as we have new threats here on Ignis Glace, both in the skies and haunting our own wastelands. I plan to eradicate these threats.”
The cheering was far more ragged this time. A susurration of voices grew as people turned to one another in their hundreds and made surprised commentary. Everyone wondered where the girl was going to go with this.
“Accordingly,” Nina said, “I’ve been given the authority and funding to raise an army for the defense of Twilight on the ground. I do not have the authority to compel service, however. I must ask for each household to give the forces that they can. I need soldiers, and I need them now. If the Droad Kindred give freely, the other houses will be pressed to match their generosity, or else face embarrassment.”
There was a moment of surprised quiet. Many knew about her newfound responsibilities, but had considered the position an honorary one. No one thought she was going to actively defend the planet. Nina, contrary to their prevailing opinions, clearly thought otherwise.
After an awkward moment, throughout which Nina continued standing before them, an old knight from Traum stood up solemnly. “I will pledge half my perrupters—forty fully functional mechs, with armament and supply carts.”
The younger folk gaped at him, but his eyes were staring hard at Nina alone. Nina acknowledged him with a gracious nod. The others slowly began to grasp that this feast was a muster—not just a simple occasion for gathering and drunkenness. Three others struggled to their feet and offered half their household forces.
Nina lifted her hands high, with a blazing sword in each. She’d switched them on for effect. One chased with lavender plasma, while the other blazed white. Her right hand still bore the livid scar where it had been severed.
The crowd stared, and she knew they had to be wondering which of these blades had slain her witch of a mother. She had never told anyone the details, and had forbidden the mechs from answering questions on the topic.
“Family! Comrades!” she called out. “I greatly appreciate your generosity. I must clarify the situation, however. We need more than an army of mech perrupters. We need human hands wielding gun and sword. The enemy we will be facing in the immediate future is not flesh, but metal. And those enemies have a way of disabling our mech guardians and even turning them against us. I propose that when we meet them on the field of honor, we will do so with an army of humans that can’t be corrupted or switched off.”
A ripple of whispering swept the crowd. This was the most shocking news of all. She was asking for more than they’d bargained for. The men who were still standing in answer to her call remained upright, but eyed one another nervously. All except for the old knight from Traun, Hans Droad. He never wavered, but raised his hand again.
“I loved your brother Leon, almost as much as you did, Nina,” Hans rumbled. “I would not have followed Olivia into the star-blasted furnace at our borders, but I and my three sons will follow your banner into the deserts, as you once followed your brother’s.”
“Thank you, Hans.”
“I only ask one thing: do you know the whereabouts of the renegades you seek?”
Nina smiled. Hans Droad was old, but he was far from a fool. He was a first cousin to her f
ather, and reportedly had known him well.
“Yes,” Nina said. “I know where their encampment is. It has been identified via the new satellites the council has place in the sky to watch for Gladius. The rebels are less than a hundred leagues from where we now stand.”
She turned back to the crowd and sliced the air with her sizzling swords. The diners nearest her ducked as the deadly blades burnt the air over their heads. “Who else will march with us?” she demanded in a shout.
More men and women stood. There was no more drunken hooting or laughter now. This was serious. Each member of the Droad clan that pledged their blade understood they might not return from this campaign. But they stood nonetheless, until an impressive number had joined her.
Nina smiled, and finally sat down. After she had gotten what she wanted, she quietly presided over a long night of feasting, drinking and combative games.
She was proud to know her people had not let her down. They had not softened with the years. Despite recent wealth, they were still tough frontiersmen who knew a just cause when they saw one. In short, they were still Droads.
Nine
The sole Parent aboard Gladius was beside herself with frustration. When she’d first taken over the ship with its vast hold full of goods, some twenty-two percent of which were organic in nature, she’d felt she had more than enough foodstuffs to grow and maintain a sizeable nest. To her mind, the basis for this mathematical formula had not changed. The newly-birthed Empress, however, had other ideas. She was not satisfied with canned meats, fibrous tubers and the like. She wanted fresh food. Fresh meat—and she insisted the Parent provide her with a steady supply.
The Parent lamented her early choices in this matter on a daily basis. She’d started off with the best of intentions, of course. She’d planned to guide the Empress’ development, carefully conditioning her to the situation at hand. She’d always thought of her role in the early stages of the monarch’s development as that of a gentle, caring, maternal figure. Unfortunately, she’d found the Empress extremely demanding from the earliest hours of her independent existence. Worse, the Parent felt herself genetically compelled to comply with the little harpy’s wishes. She had therefore expended a great quantity of her fresh protoplasm supplies, provided mostly by dead crewmembers, to appease the monarch’s palate.