The prospect of shutting the factory down in order to move it, finding the power necessary to sustain it, and rebooting the facility once it was in place made her depressed.
Mary took a Zid food cake from her sparsely stocked larder, filled her pockets with surefire trade items, and took one last look around. Something the size of a hydroponically grown orange rolled out from under some shelves, saw her parka, and uttered a series of joyful squeaks.
Mary had designed the toy during her pregnancy.
George named the device "Hairball," in honor of its ability to sprout thousands of synthetic hair follicles, thereby transforming itself into something cute and cuddly.
Corley had intended to take Hairball with her, but forgot in the last-minute rush, and left the toy behind. Hairball extended a tiny pogo-sticklike appendage and jumped up and down. Its processor had a limited vocabulary. "Me go! Me go! Me go!"
Mary shook her head. "You not go. Not today."
The robot grew smaller. "Corley play?"
Mary sighed. "No, for the thousandth time, Corley can't play. She went away ... remember?"
"No," Hairball replied honestly. "Me wait."
"Good," Mary said thankfully. "You wait. I'll be back."
The riot gun had a short barrel, eight-round magazine, and pistol grip. A badly mauled synthetic had given it to her in return for emergency surgery. A good choice for someone small and vulnerable. Slung from a shoulder strap, and ready for use, it kept the riffraff away. Maybe she would fire it one day—to see how it felt.
She fingered the pocket remote, heard the security system buzz in response, and opened the door. The outside air was cold, damned cold, and she hurried to seal the opening. No less than three bolts snicked into place as the security system obeyed its programming. She glanced across the street, felt Clamface stare at her, and hoped he froze to death.
The market was only a mile away for those who were strong enough, or crazy enough, to walk through secondary streets. Mary preferred to follow more heavily traveled thoroughfares. They made the trip longer, but were patrolled by the Guild's troops.
During the years immediately after the landing, the power structure established during the long journey had held, and resources had been allocated according to rules and procedures laid down by a seven-person group known as the Committee. An entire prefab city was built under their direction, complete with fusion plant, hydroponics facility, and carefully planned multifamily habitats. Nonsentient robots handled most of the work—but human labor was required as well.
That's when a group called the Merchant's Guild had taken exception to the four-hour-per-day "labor tax" and precipitated a revolt. The Guild won the short but bloody conflict, and free-form, "anything goes" capitalism took the place of the perfectly designed communities envisioned by the Committee.
The communities collectively known as Shipdown burst forth from the Pilgrim's twenty-five-mile-long hull like fungus on a fallen tree trunk. Resources were totaled and divided into shares that were hoarded, squandered, bought, sold, combined, and redivided until the merchants controlled just about everything. They'd been ready to consolidate their power, to put an army of subsentient robots to work building their factories, when the planet decided otherwise. Now they provided what order there was, and, like most of the citizens of Shipdown, Mary was grateful.
The sky was the color of worn aluminum and gave birth to occasional snowflakes. They drifted this way and that before hitting the ground. Anonymous scuff marks showed that others were up and about.
More and more noises were heard as the city woke from its slumber. The solid thump, thump, thump of a carefully hidden loom, the staccato bark of a unicycle engine, the pop, pop, pop of small-caliber gunfire, and the undulating wail of a Zid prayer caller.
She saw him off to the right. His feet rested on a crossbar, his rags jerked in the wind, and a scarf held him in place. This one was yellow, but some favored red or blue. No one knew why. No one she knew, anyway.
The poles were curiosities at first—something to wonder at. Then, as time passed, and the T-shaped poles began to proliferate, curiosity turned to annoyance as the callers synchronized their prayers and created what amounted to a vast around-the-clock public address system.
In spite of the fact that some died of exposure, and snipers accounted for two or three a night, the zealots persisted. Their wailing was as endless as the wind.
Mary raised her collar and trudged up the hill. The slope had been created when the Pilgrim struck the planet's surface and skidded for more than eighty miles. Parallel ridges had been created by the waves of earth and rock shoved away from the ship's massive hull.
As Mary climbed toward the top of "East Ridge," the Pilgrim's much-abused hull began to appear. Frost covered the hull, except where plates had been removed, and smoke poured out of makeshift chimneys. Though the ship had been emptied after the landing, thousands had returned to it after the Cleansing, and considered themselves lucky to be there.
A raggedy man passed, straining to pull his homemade cart up the hill, boots slipping in the slush. Mary stepped out, put her shoulder to the cart, and swore when the wheels threw slush on her pants.
The man paused at the top of the hill, nodded his thanks, and held out his hand. A ball of deep-fried dough sat nestled in the palm of a filthy black glove. Mary didn't hesitate to pop the concoction into her mouth and bite into it. It was hot and tasted of cinnamon. The man was gone before she could thank him.
The roboticist paused for a moment to marvel at the spaceship. It blocked a third of the sky, stretched for miles in both directions, and incorporated more than two thousand years of scientific progress. Knowledge the Zid considered evil... and humans were beginning to lose.
Mary chose her footing with care as she descended the hill. Perhaps the naysayers were right, perhaps the Pilgrim should have remained in orbit—but what of the metal she had supplied? What of the prefab city wrested from her holds? Most of it lay in ruins now, but she couldn't be blamed for that... no one could.
A thousand pillars of smoke reached up to support the low-hanging sky as Mary made her way past a lifeless prayer caller and down the opposite slope.
A flock of night birds, their beaks bloody from pecking at the Zid's half-frozen flesh, flapped into the air. Food was where you found it.
Doon awoke clutching another synthetic's arm to his chest. His eyes opened to near total darkness. What little light there was formed a straight line along one side of the cable vault's access door. Afterimages strobed through his visual recognition system, and his body spasmed in response. The punishment had gone on for a long time and leaked into his dreams. Assuming they were dreams and not a simulation.
The question was irrelevant, and Doon pushed it away. The real question lay cradled in his arms. He had the arm— who would attach it? He knew the answer, or hoped he did, assuming she would agree.
With the same single-minded determination once devoted to finding criminals, the synthetic had tracked no less than three roboticists to their various lairs and chosen the one he thought most qualified. It was then, and only then, that Doon went after his arm.
The android emptied his pack and eyed his belongings. There weren't very many. The battery-powered light, a pack, a small "first aid" kit for do-it-yourself repairs, four boxes of ammo, three magazines, a cleaning kit, a set of reload tools, a combat knife, a media player, a bag filled with heat cubes, and an extra set of clothes.
Of even more importance, however, were some carefully chosen trade goods, including two bottles of vitamin C with the original seals intact, an ampule of broad-spectrum antibiotics, a pound of number eight shot, and six disposable lighters. The media player was a luxury but didn't take much room. He decided to keep it.
He started to pack—not an easy task with only one limb. Sojo's arm went into the bag first. The other items fit around it. A human would have carried the same gear Doon did, plus food, water, and what? Pictures of Mom and Dad? The
latest in a long chain of survivors, people who had lived long enough to reproduce, and launch their genes into the future. The synthetic bent Sojo's hand at the wrist, pulled the flap into place, and secured the necessary fasteners.
Doon took one last look around, confirmed that everything was accounted for, and slipped his arm through a strap. The cover squealed as he pushed it up and out of the way, and clanged when it hit the pavement. An elderly couple looked toward the noise, saw a man emerge as if from a grave, and hurried away. The less they saw, the safer they were.
Doon replaced the lid out of respect for the next tenant, pulled a three-sixty, and headed for higher ground. He felt good, very good, and turned his thoughts to the future. Equipped with a brand-new arm, the synthetic could do whatever he pleased. Find a hole somewhere, read his data cubes, and wait for things to improve.
A slush ball exploded against the side of Doon's face. He frowned, brought his target acquisition system on-line, and scanned the roof line. The youngsters made black silhouettes against the gray sky. They laughed as the cripple scooped some slush, rolled it on his chest, and threw the missile as hard as he could.
The laughter died as the perfectly thrown ball smacked into the tallest boy's chest. A witness cheered; Doon bowed and continued on his way. The day was young, and life, if that's what his existence could be called, was good.
As Mary descended the hill, the market spread itself before her. Illegal at one time, and truly the province of thieves, the market had thrived of late, offering as it did a setting for barter-based commerce.
Knowing a good thing when they saw it, the Guild had fenced the area, placed guards on all the gates, and taxed both ends of every transaction. Some talked of establishing a "free market," but no one did anything about it—partly because Guild rates were relatively low, and partly because the merchants were preferable to organized crime.
Though small to begin with, the market now covered more than two square miles. Except for their garish signs, the huts, shanties, and lean-tos that lined its twisty streets were as gray as the sky above.
Mary had company now. In ones, twos, and threes people made their way down intersecting streets, emerged from alleys, and drifted toward "E" gate. There was little to no conversation because all of them were competitors and potential enemies.
Some carried bags of trade goods, baskets of carefully hoarded food, and other more unusual objects.
One couple shared the weight of a pole-supported sling, which, in spite of the tarp that covered it, almost certainly supported a Mothri egg. Most people boiled them and sliced the contents into "steaks."
Mary had tried one, but had been unable to eat what she knew to be an unborn sentient, and had thrown up. Others had no such qualms, though, especially during a food shortage.
Other marketgoers led genetically engineered mutimals or pulled wagons loaded with firewood and, in one case, tiles looted from forerunner ruins. Most were armed, and for good reason. The trip from home to market was long and potentially dangerous.
The crowd thickened, swirled, and divided itself into four distinct lines, each leading through what looked like a door frame but was actually a weapons detector. Anonymous behind their visors, the Guild security personnel were quick and efficient. Everyone knew the drill, and the line moved quickly.
Mary stepped through the detector. A security guard peered at his screen. "Knife, left forearm, otherwise clean." He gestured toward the next station. Mary moved forward, passed the riot gun to a woman, and watched as she placed a seal on the trigger housing. A man taped the knife into its sheath.
The last guard accepted a 12-gauge shotgun shell in lieu of scrip, and handed her a flyer that featured "Dr. Anson's pain-free dental work" on one side and a public health tract on the other.
Mary tucked the paper away. Not for future reference, but to start a fire with, or to use as toilet paper.
Mary had been to the Zid quarter many times over the last year or so, and headed in mat direction again. The main street, better known as "The Scam" to full-time residents, was eternally crowded.
It was early yet, which meant it was quieter than usual, and a lot less crowded.
A graffiti-covered construction droid whirred by. The guard posted on its bumper spoke volumes.
Children played hide-and-seek through the stalls, laughed when merchants scolded them, spilled out onto the street. They reminded Mary of Corley, or how she wanted Corley to be, and the thought brought a smile to her lips.
The market had an invigorating effect on Mary, and the roboticist breathed it all in. There was the smell of wood smoke, slowly simmering mush, and yes, the faintest whiff of ozone. A sure sign that machines were at work.
Mary turned off the main street and made her way down an alley that catered to bars and flophouses. One sign read, "We accept major painkillers," while another promised that "Our guards will ensure that you're alive in the morning."
A man saw Mary, stepped out of a doorway, and paused when the riot gun swiveled in his direction. The roboticist watched him out of the comer of her eye, but reserved most of her attention for the drunk who lay toward the middle of the street. Was he truly unconscious? Or part of a two-man trap?
The seemingly unconscious form started to rise. Mary ran forward, kicked the faker in the head, and spun around.
The first man had closed half the distance since the last time she'd looked at him. He saw how her finger rested on the bright blue security seal, the way the riot gun was lined up with his chest, and froze. "Sorry, my mistake."
"You got that right," Mary said grimly. "Turn around and run like hell."
The man did as he was told. The roboticist waited till he was a full block away, ignored the second man's moans, and continued on her way.
A full three minutes passed before her hands started to shake. Mary swore and hid them in her pockets. It would take strength to find Corley—and a whole lot of luck. Could she do it? All by herself? She pushed the answer away.
The surroundings changed as human-style shanties gave way to the clean, carefully groomed streets typical of Zid Town. They were crime-free, thanks to the fact that those who lived there had nothing to steal, and fairly well populated. Morning prayers had been over for an hour now, and communal work was underway. Some swept, some searched for errant bits of litter, and others slapped coats of white paint onto already pristine walls. Most wore black body stockings, white ankle-length overrobes, and sturdy boots.
Mary could see why so many humans were attracted to Zid culture and religion. Both promised a simple, well-ordered life. Not to mention the fact that there had always been those who feared technology, or were suspicious of it, even among the starfaring colonists.
In spite of the name "Zid Town," most of the locals were human, serving their time as "shepherds" until proclaimed "ready in the eyes of the Lord," when they would join hundreds of fellow converts for the long march over the mountains and into the "holy lands."
One of the workers, a woman with a round face and luminous eyes, saw Mary and hurried over. The greeting of strangers, especially those who joined the flock, was an important part of God's work. "The Lord loves you ... how may I help?"
Mary had been through the drill many times before, and knew that patient determination was the key to success. "Thank you ... but no. I'm here to visit Sister Kora."
The woman looked doubtful. The Zid hierarchy frowned on random fraternization. Contacts, if any, require authorization. "Does the Sister expect you?"
"Yes," Mary lied, "but thanks for asking."
Mary assumed an air of confidence she didn't feel and marched down the street. She could feel the eyes on her back and was determined to ignore them.
Mary ignored the converts, took a right, and headed for Sister Kora's dome. The roboticist had no concept of how the Zid ranked within her culture, or how she felt about Mary's occasional visits.
The connection, tenuous at best, had been established more than a year before, when Ma
ry had seen a gang of street toughs knock Kora down and had rushed to her rescue. Not because she harbored any particular affection for the aliens, but because it was the right thing to do.
Kora was shaken, and bleeding from a cut, so it was natural to escort her home, and once there, to perform first aid. One thing led to another, and through a combination of trade talk and sign language the two females managed to communicate. Subsequent visits had strengthened the bond—and Kora had agreed to seek information about Corley's whereabouts. Mary wondered if the Zid wanted to help or to make a convert. There was no way to tell.
Mary felt her pulse quicken as she approached the hut. What if Kora had news? The very possibility brought a lump to her throat. Or what if she didn't? She had experienced such disappointment many times before, and knew it would leave her depressed.
Mary didn't know how Kora detected her arrival, but supposed it had something to do with the hundreds of wrist-sized holes that dotted the hut's surface. Open when the occasion demanded, they functioned as windows, skylights, and vents. Wood plugs, all sawed from the same diameter log, served as corks. Many were hand-carved, decorated with quasireligious scenes, and handed down through the maternal line.
The entrance to the hut was protected by a patchwork quilt of hand-tanned leather. A six-foot-long slit ran down the center of the cover and could be sealed from within. Once reserved for deepest winters, these barriers now served year round. A booted foot appeared, quickly followed by a thickly muscled leg, and Kora herself.
The female's skull was radically different from its human counterpart, a fact that had given rise to derogatory names such as "T's" or "clam heads."
Both names stemmed from the fact that the Zid had horizontally configured jaws and vertical mouth slits. The sideways-projecting jaws resulted in T-shaped skulls, hence the slur "T-heads," while the up-and-down mouths reminded some of clams, giving birth to the pejorative "clam heads."
Add to that the fact that Zid physiology called for only one eye, which had the capacity to roam the entire width of their skulls, plus cheek gills through which they breathed, and it was difficult for either race to ignore the extent to which they were physiologically different.
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