New Writings in SF 29 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Keith Bulmer

  ‘I’ll beat you yet,’ he said. ‘I have the chromosome. I can think, reason ahead of you. There’s always a way.’

  The Warrior said nothing but its eyes glowed brighter. One of its extremities flicked up and missed Eddie’s foot by an inch, carving a deep V channel around the branch.

  ‘Think! Think! Think!’ he whispered. ‘There must be something I can do that bastard can’t.’

  He bent forward and brought his log down once more on the upturned head but this time a limb closed around it and wrenched the weapon from his grasp. It was waved once or twice exploratively whilst the Warrior considered the implications of its possession. Eddie climbed rapidly higher. The log would give the Warrior an added three feet reach once it had perfected the technique of weapon usage.

  It was the swaying of the branch that gave him the idea. The Warrior was considerably heavier than he. If he climbed out along the branch above the one on which the Warrior was now settled, it might not be aware of its own weight and follow him outwards. He crawled along as far as he could and then, standing and jumping for the branch above, he swung himself outwards hand over hand. He realized then that this was his last possible ploy. If the Warrior ventured only as far as the branch would bear its weight, it could either wait until he tired and fell or club him down with his own weapon. Having swung out as far as he dared, there was nothing further he could do but dangle and await developments.

  The Warrior followed him along the lower branch, its seven feet curled sloth-like around the timber, the eighth holding the club. The branch began bending downwards away from him encouraging the Warrior to move further outwards still, whilst the green wood bent further downwards ... As if realizing that it was now or never since the outward movement was offset by the downwards bend, the Warrior stopped and swung its club, in range now with the dangling figure above. It was almost the end. The log whistled in a wide arc and then, a moment before impact, the branch broke with a loud rending sound and swung inwards against the trunk. The Warrior maintained its grip although its head took the full impact and for a few seconds it hung until the heel of the branch peeled away, slivered and crashed to the ground.

  A low rumble of cheering broke from across the perimeter fence as Eddie worked his way back to the trunk and climbed down. The Warrior was lying on its head, its eight legs stretched upwards, bending occasionally at the joints, rubbing its feet slowly together in pairs like a fly. It was not yet dead if a term so anthropomorphic could have been applied to its workings. Even as he picked up the log and began to hammer at its central body, four of its legs curled over against the ground and it struggled like an upturned beetle to right itself. Paying no attention at all to his efforts, it finally succeeded, rolled over and, whilst seven of its legs appeared to be exploring and feeling itself for damage, the eighth flashed upwards, curled around the log and twitched it from his hand with a jerk that nearly dislocated his shoulder. He jumped back in time and the thing was coming for him again, two forelegs extended like a lobster. He dodged first behind the tree and then made for the open country and the river. The Warrior followed but it was noticeably slower in its movements. He now had the great advantage that he was quicker and could outrun it. Although this gave him a better chance of survival, it brought him no nearer to its destruction. So far the Warrior had lived up to the legend of its indestructibility, if not of its absolute omnipotence.

  Eddie thought swiftly as he made for the river. Its makers would have ensured that it was able to operate in all weathers but its manhandling might well have broken some essential seal or joint and affected its water-proofing. He dived into the slow-moving, black water and swam to the farther bank. The Warrior followed and, without hesitation, disappeared beneath the surface. Eddie moved slowly upstream, watching and waiting. Minutes passed.

  Five. Ten. A shout went up from the crowd.

  ‘He’s won! He’s won! He’s beaten the Warrior!’

  It seemed they were right ... Nothing stirred on the muddy, scum-crested water. Not an eddy. Not a ripple. The sun came out from behind the clouds and a light wind blew across the heath. It had succumbed. Either it had sunk in the silt of the river bottom, or it had ceased to function, its intricate relays put out of action by the seeping-in of the water.

  He turned and began to climb the bank. He clasped his hands above his head like a victorious boxer. The crowd roared. The camera crews came jolting down the heather-lined, sand-rutted track and somewhere in the distance a brass band began to play. He did not see the ripple in the water behind him, the flash of a metal leg like the tentacle of an octopus. He saw and heard nothing but the band and the cheers and the sunlight on the heat-hazed heath until a clawed foot seized hold of his ankle and pulled him back towards the river.

  * * * *

  Four

  It was a combination of both the inherited Z factor and the environmental effect of his early training in the Mapel Street battles that made him fight now with a cold and contemptuous fury, refusing to consider for one moment the possibility of defeat. He somersaulted forward towards the river in the opposite direction to that which the Warrior would have expected, came up with his shoulder under the member and thrust upwards. The claws came apart, tearing the flesh of his leg and ankle but he hardly felt the pain in his struggle to uncoil its new loop around his neck and to dodge the second leg that lifted out of the water like a long-necked dinosaur.

  There was some lack of co-ordination between the members as he ducked under the second limb, struck up at the first just as it was tightening to choke him and, as the two tentacles struck and scraped together, it momentarily loosened its grip. He dived free and made for the top of the bank. The Warrior rose out of the stream and followed. He was now between the river and the perimeter fence, cornered with the Warrior cutting off any escape back to the open country where his superior speed might save him. There was nothing for it but to climb the fence. There had been nothing in the rules to say that this would bring disqualification. In fact there had been no rules at all. The organizers had assumed that the Warrior would, in a matter of minutes, catch and kill him and that would be that. What instructions had they given to the Warrior? Apparently none either in respect of the fence, because he was scarcely over when it began climbing in pursuit.

  A great shout went up from the crowd as it straddled the wire at the top and came, four legs at a time, down the outside. The idea occurred to Eddie that if he could lose himself among the spectators, it might confuse the Warrior in the same way that a fox will put off the hounds by weaving through a flock of sheep. This was easier said than done, since the crowd, with no means of knowing how discriminating the Warrior might be, were taking no chances and bolting in every direction as fast as they could.

  He had run perhaps half a kilometre when he saw the train stopped on its monorail with the driver and passengers watching the spectacle from what was a particularly good vantage point. He looked over his shoulder. The Warrior appeared to have the advantage of some self-repairing contrivance in its body. It was certainly moving faster now and gradually gaining ground. He made for the train, clambering up the girders to the rail and beating on a door until someone opened it and let him in.

  ‘Get going!’ he shouted. ‘Get going before he makes it too!’

  The train began to move as the driver realized the danger; but it was too late. The windows of the last carriage shattered as the Warrior leapt aboard and held on. Eddie fought his way through the milling and screaming passengers to the driver’s cabin.

  ‘Give it all you’ve got!’ he ordered. ‘Shake it off before it breaks in!’

  It was of no use. At 300 m.p.h. the Warrior had pulled himself on board and was winkling the passengers jamming the corridors one by one from his path and throwing them through the windows. It was not in any way confused like a hound in a flock of sheep. It knew who it was it wanted and the disposal of the others was done without rancour for the one reason only that they stood between it and its quarry.
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  ‘You’ll get off my train!’ the driver shouted, applying the brakes so powerfully that more passengers were killed in the crush than the Warrior had disposed of in its own fashion. Quite by chance the train came ultimately to rest in a station and Eddie was able to jump from a window on to the platform. The Warrior also emerged and took up a position between him and the exit. It began to move slowly forward. The train lurched and accelerated fast out of the station. This time there seemed to be no escape. The Warrior was implacable, bent on pursuing him to the ends of the earth and there was no doubt now that it was, to all human concepts, totally invulnerable.

  Eddie looked up and down the platform. There was no other exit. Only a line of small, one-storey shops. A tobacconist’s, a drug-store, a chemist’s, a perfumerie. He was unarmed and exhausted. But even now, when there was no hope at all, the Z factor continued to operate. He abandoned himself neither to panic nor to resignation. He stood his ground, alert, thoughts generated and evaluated with kingfisher swiftness, convinced that from somewhere, in the nick of time, the one saving idea would come.

  And then, suddenly, it came. First - a question. By what means had the Warrior selected him, alone of all the passengers on the train, the spectators on the tribunes? How did it know which was he and which another? All Chinamen look alike to Europeans and no machine could differentiate one man from another by sight alone. It could only be sight in conjunction with smell. Every dog knows the scent of its master as different from all other scents. The machine must have the built-in mechanism of the dog. It could track and recognize by scent. What would a dog do if it recognized its master by sight but he smelled like the postman or the man from next door? The dog would come to some conclusion, but would the machine? No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he had also reached the conclusion of how it might be exploited. He dived into the perfumerie and, to the horror of the assistants, swept an armful of bottles from their shelves and began pouring the contents over himself, applying the many sprays swiftly from front to rear and from his head to the extremity of his toes. He finished in time to meet the Warrior on the threshold.

  It was a remarkable confrontation. The machine, believing that at last it had its quarry in its power, but having learned also to be wary of its quarry’s prowess, squatted back on its haunches and raised a single leg to strike. Eddie stoutly stood his ground and looked his mechanical adversary in its grille. He felt confident of success. The machine could no longer match his total characteristics with the blueprint of its instruction card. When this happened, it would - what? The claw was still poised above his head and the body was rocking to and fro with a rhythmic bending of its knee joints.

  ‘Get lost!’ he ordered.

  The single foot came down slowly. The claws, opening and closing, touched his cheek, moved around his neck, closed on to his right ear. Hesitantly no more than a tweak, and yet he felt the lobe had been punctured.

  ‘God!’ he muttered. ‘It wants my blood group!’

  An analysis of the Z factor would probably outweigh its confusion with the scent and steer it towards a decision. He stepped backwards and struck the claw away.

  ‘Quit fooling!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my sight!’

  It withdrew its claw and began to back out on to the platform on four legs, moving the other four with the motions of a Hindu temple dancer or of a praying mantis at prayer.

  ‘Back!’ he ordered.

  He could force it to the edge of the platform and direct one of its members on to the live rail. Alternatively, he could make it jump. All he had to do was to establish his own ascendancy. It was programmed to obey, to kill only what it had been told to kill, and now it was exhibiting every sign of cybernetic neurosis. 99 per cent of him fitted the instruction in its memory bank but the 1 per cent that was scent did not. It needed the whole picture to complete its aggressive circuit.

  ‘Down on your knees!’ There passed a long minute whilst the two human eyes met and held unwaveringly the equally steady glow of the optics behind the grille. They seemed less bright than formerly. Slowly at first, alternating between left and right, they began to flicker.

  ‘Down!’ he repeated.

  It settled down on to its penultimate joints, holding the two leaders aloft like the horns of a mammoth.

  ‘Quit stalling!’ he barked. ‘Down!’

  Gradually, its knees bent until its body rested on the platform, its legs curved high around it, taking on the shape and symmetry of a lobster pot.

  ‘That’s better! Now turn over!’

  It up-ended itself and lay with its legs in the air, bent at the knees and with the exterior joint that might have been referred to as the ankle, waving the claw slowly up and down, indicating, if anything at all, a submissive desire to play. He slapped its underbelly and it let out a sound like a low bark. He set his foot between its joints and, creaking, it began to gurgle. Putting his hands on his hips he laughed until the tears wet his beard and the Warrior’s legs wriggled and contorted as if it were being tickled.

  ‘I’ve not only beaten it.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve tamed it.’

  ‘I can’t wait to get back to the European space agency and see that general’s face when you follow me in,’ he told the Warrior. ‘Get on your feet and let’s get mobile. On second thoughts - no! Why should I walk? Pick me up with your front legs and carry me!’

  The guests had left the arena along with the press and the camera crews who had either gone home or were scouring the countryside for news of the Warrior who, the experts said, would now hound its challenger to the ends of the earth unless someone could catch up with it and stop it. Larry Hawksworth and the director i/c robotics were having a hard time of it with the general when someone saw the Warrior trundling through the gates with Eddie Kale lying crosswise in its forepaws. There seemed to be no doubt that cybernetics had proved their worth against both swords and sorcery as they in the end were bound to do. Mech-man was now bringing home the bacon. They watched it stalking sedately up the long drive between the block houses, along the avenue flanked by overlarge busts of European presidents, through the rose garden and up the long stairway to the general’s quarters.

  ‘Was it programmed for this?’ the general asked.

  ‘Curious,’ Sven murmured. ‘Its orders were to kill, not to return with the body.’

  There was a knock at the door and an aide entered hurriedly. Springing to attention, he saluted and voiced his warning simultaneously, fingers trembling a little against the peak of his cap.

  ‘Es kommt die treppe himauf!’ he stammered. The stairs - it up comes.’

  It was too late for further comment. The Warrior was already there, sweeping the aide aside and swinging the double doors backwards for an effective entry. It reached the centre of the room, fell on to its knees like a camel at the end of a safari allowing its rider to dismount, even extending one claw to allow Eddie to step comfortably down and confront the astonished general.

  ‘I reckon,’ Eddie said, ‘the battle’s over. I ain’t killed it, as it seemed a pity. It ain’t a bad bag o’ tricks. However, if it’s in the rules, I’ll tell it to jump out of the window. Whatever you want, Daddy-o. Just say the word and it’s as good as done.’

  ‘How have you done this?’ Sven asked quietly.

  ‘Oh! Well!’ Eddie reflected. ‘It’s a matter of IQ. I reckon mine was a mite higher than its was. We’ve got a sort of rapport now, me and it. Tame as a tickled Tom cat, your monster is.’

  ‘Hey - you!’ he said to the Warrior. ‘Pick up this jerk’s desk and throw it through the window.’

  The Warrior meekly obliged and, lifting the large steel desk with its front members, raised it ceiling high and sent it splintering through the long plate-glass window and down on to the rose garden.

  ‘You see,’ Eddie explained. ‘It’s a handy kind of bodyguard to have around if you want one and I’m reckoning that’s what I might be needing any time now.’

  To his surprise, the genera
l, stiffly erect and his hand held protectively on his own desk, was beaming.

  ‘Das war gut!’ he approved. ‘Das war sehr gut, Petersen, mein Freund, nicht wahr?’

  ‘So,’ Eddie demanded. ‘I get the job. I go on this flight of yours?’

  ‘Sit down,’ the general ordered. ‘Setzen sich, mein Freund. First we must talk - ja?’

  * * * *

  The ship passed out of space and into supra-space-time-plasma in exact conformity with Karkov’s Law. ‘Where the velocity of a body in relation to its starting point plus the velocity of the starting point itself in relation to an assumed fixed point in space time exceeds the theoretical speed of light in a static universe, the time dimensions of the body will foreshorten according to the formula m x V12 -v22 x K. K being naturally Karkov’s Constant. The mechanics of the operation had been understood for some twenty years before the launching of Icarus II on its way to Barnard’s Star. The difficulty had been solely the location of a fixed point in space from which to base the necessary calculation. Since the earth moves in relation to the sun and the sun moves in relation to other suns and the galaxy moves in relation to other galaxies, an ultimate cosmic starting point seemed likely to have substance only as a mathematician’s debating point.