On one level the whole thing was laughable, ridiculous, and very disheartening. In fact, a human might have given up then and there. But Doon saw something in his collection of mechanical misfits—something a bio bod might have missed.
While some of his troops were clearly unsuitable for combat—the sweepers being an excellent example—many were quite adaptable, and, thanks to a ready supply of nano, could be modified in a relatively short period of time.
More than that, the machines were trainable, needing only the correct programming to make themselves useful and, once employed, utterly reliable.
The problem would be in the areas of flexibility and initiative. While dependable, the nonsentient machines would be trapped within the parameters of their programming, or reliant on others to provide direction.
Still, unlike Jones, who was continually frustrated by how slowly his human recruits absorbed new skills, Doon could train his low-function subordinates in a matter of seconds once the software was ready. That was a task to which Mary had already turned her considerable skills.
Yes, the synthetics would prove more difficult, especially where their independence was concerned, but they did have the ability to acquire vast amounts of information in a relatively short period of time, and that would prove useful.
Doon called the synthetics together, took a moment to introduce himself, and stated the challenge. "The choice is yours: You can stop the Zid—or die on their altars. Anyone have any questions?"
No one did.
32
Ar ma ged' don / n / a final and conclusive battle
between the forces of good and evil
The sedan chair lurched as one of two human beings slipped, fell to one knee, and rose again. Lictor heard a whip crack as a bodyguard set the matter right. The job had killed three of the heretics so far—which was all to the good.
The news regarding the missing Devil-machine, Jantz, and his mysterious paralysis had arrived the evening before. Lietor's mind was made up. Though relatively easy to convert, the humans were treacherous by nature, and must be purged. Jantz, who had clearly been up to something, would await his return.
In the future, after Flat Top had fallen, the aliens would be treated like what they were: beasts of burden. Fit only to work the fields. The thought pleased the Chosen One, and he smiled.
The diagnostics came up green, the robot beeped, and Mary turned the device loose. The machine, which had originally been designed to place seismic sensors, had been converted into a mine-layer and supplied with appropriate programming, not to mention a heat-seeking machine gun, camouflage paint, and a new set of communications protocols.
It was just the latest in the long list of conversions, modifications, and adaptations that Mary and her two assistants had been asked to carry out. That was the trouble with working for a machine—the bastard never took breaks.
Doon filled the doorway of her makeshift lab. His newly appointed executive officer, a history teacher named Rudolph Strang, stood in the background. Both wore camos.
Mary wasn't sure which of them scared her the most— Doon, who had made the transition from self-centered loner to idealistic leader, or Strang, who was said to carry every military text ever written around his processor and had the words "machines rule" stenciled across his forehead.
"So," Doon said with his usual cheerful efficiency, "how are we doing? Are my troops ready to go?"
"As ready as a collection of street-sweepers, maintenance bots and ditch-diggers ever will be."
"Good. We've got a field exercise tonight. Care to join us?"
Mary shook her head. "I'm human. Remember? We have to sleep."
Doon waved an acknowledgment, and Strang smiled. Not a friendly smile, but one filled with pity. The synthetic felt sorry for her. Mary remembered school, where she had struggled to learn while machines had absorbed knowledge as if it were oxygen. Except that they didn't need oxygen—or very much else, for that matter. Maybe the Zid were right ... maybe there was reason to be scared.
It was a ritual by now. Exhausted by the journey, and scared of what lay ahead, one, two, or three of the crusaders would sneak out of camp and attempt to run. A few made it. Not many—but just enough to encourage those with similar aspirations.
Most were not so lucky, however, and were killed in the morning, right after breakfast.
Solly and Dara had grown to hate the ritual thump, thump, thump of the drums, the words mixed with snowflakes, and the inevitable fall of the bloodstained hammer.
This particular morning was no different, not at first anyway, although something amazing was about to happen.
The multitude was assembled and the Chosen One was halfway through the usual condemnation when a strange buzzing sound was heard.
Solly thought he was the only one who had heard the noise at first, until others began to frown and search for the source. It came like a night bug to the flame, a silvery construct with long fragile wings.
It was high at first, very high, but flew in ever-descending circles.
The crowd gasped as the device appeared. Some raised their hands, as if to protect themselves from harm, while others began to pray.
Solly allowed words to issue from his mouth, but his attention was on the wonderful, fabulous machine, his mind already absorbing the manner in which it had been constructed, and wondering what impact a shorter set of wings would have on its performance.
Still, even he was shocked when the flyer spoke perfect Zid. "Greetings from the beings of Flat Top. Don't be frightened. This machine, which is only one of thousands at our disposal, will do you no harm, as we have done you no harm. Please return to your homes. The Cleansing, as you refer to them were an omen, a sign that Zuul is sick, and in need of medicine. We have that medicine, and just as you might treat a sickly child, we plan to ..."
The rattle of automatic weapons fire obliterated the next few words. The drone staggered, issued a thin stream of gray smoke, and made a hard right-hand turn.
Thousands watched in horror as the Reapers continued to fire, and the flyer, seemingly guided by an invisible hand, dived toward a supply cart. Not just any cart, but one loaded with ammo, and marked to that effect.
Though small in and of itself, the explosion was sufficient to trigger some black-market grenades, and they took care of the rest.
Those standing closest to the blast were killed. Others were knocked off their feet. A wheel soared fifty feet into the air. A splinter ripped through a Reaper's chest. A female screamed, priests began to chant, and Solly held Dara in his arms. Crono saw, but didn't say a word. A message had been sent—and a message had been received.
Lictor screamed orders, caused a half dozen Reapers to go under the hammer, and called upon God for divine retribution.
It took the rest of the day and the better part of the evening to restore order, remotivate the faithful, and organize antiaircraft squads.
Maras had been good at things like that, and—much to his own surprise—Lictor actually missed him.
A nano-built scale model of Flat Top and the surrounding terrain occupied the center of the conference table. Blocks of Reapers, soldiers, and robots were positioned willy-nilly among hats, half-empty cups, and other debris. The room was crowded, and beings sat where they could.
A bank of screens dominated one wall, and Colonel Samuel Jones watched as the high-res camera dove at the two-wheeled cart and suddenly cut to black. He shook his head sadly. "Too bad it didn't work... words beat the heck out of bullets. Still, we gave them something to think about."
Strang spoke without apparent thought: " 'Everything the enemy least expects will succeed the best.' Frederick the Great, 1747."
"So noted," Jones said dryly. "Well, the effort bought some time ... how will we take advantage of it?"
Major Kristen Cantwell had been a sergeant at arms aboard the ship, had served the Guild, and had been recruited by Jones. She had closely cropped gray hair, eyes with a tendency to flick back and f
orth, and extremely white teeth. "My people are ready, sir. Just say the word."
Jones looked thoughtful. "Yes, I believe they are.... But will they stay? When the going gets tough?"
Cantwell shrugged. "We're mercenaries ... we get paid to fight."
Strang smiled. " '... Mercenaries and auxiliaries are useless and dangerous, and a leader having his state built on mercenary armies will never be secure...' Machiavelli, 1513."
Cantwell wasn't all that fond of wireheads—or negative comments about her troops. Her right hand dipped toward a sidearm as she rose from her chair.
Jones raised a hand. "Enough!" He turned to Doon. "Major, I'll thank you to keep your executive officer under control. The last comment was completely unnecessary."
Doon said, "Yes, sir," made a mental note to talk with Strang, and blanked his face.
Jones motioned to Cantwell. ' 'Thank you, Major. We will count on you and your troops. Major Nargo?''
Nargo was thirty-something—and very intense. He led his militia the same way he led the accounting department: by the numbers. He crossed his arms, realized that might look defensive, and forced them down.
"My group is at 86.2 percent readiness, sir, with an average training score of 82.1, a physical readiness index of 92.4, and a ..."
"Yes," Jones interrupted. "Very impressive, I'm sure. But are they ready to shoot at the Zid?"
Nargo blushed. "Sir, yes sir."
"Excellent. Now, how about you, Major Doon? Tell us what, outside of quotes, we can expect from your battalion."
Doon ignored the barb. "One helluva bill for spare parts, Colonel—and some very shiny floors."
The room exploded into laughter, and Jones allowed himself a grin. Doon waited for the noise to subside and launched his report. "After taking a long, hard look at the assets under my command, I realized that most of them wouldn't make very good soldiers. With that in mind, my staff and I decided to form three separate units, including an engineering company, presently engaged in digging trenches and laying mines, a special operations unit, of which the airborne drone was part, and an armored group built around the Mothri-donated machines.
"I think you'll agree that the bugs will not only inflict a significant amount of damage, but are quite likely to scare the shit out of the enemy."
"Ah, death by dehydration," Cantwell's XO put in. "How devious."
The room broke into laughter yet again, and Jones waited for it to die down. "Thank you, Major Doon. Any questions? No? Well, it's my turn."
The officer looked around the table as if seeing his subordinates for the first... and perhaps the last time. "I won't waste your time with a whole lot of rah-rah bullshit. There are more than twenty thousand religious fanatics headed our way—and they mean to wipe us off the face of the planet.
"Truth is, we could kill every single one of the sonsofbitches if we wanted to—and use their bones for paperweights. We have the know-how, we have the means, and we sure as hell have the motivation. We have three aircars stored down below. They don't like volcanic dust much, but each and every one of them has sufficient range to reach the column, and enough payload to carry a nuke.
"Only trouble is that it wouldn't be right. Most of the Zid aren't any more evil than you or I. They've been lied to, that's all—kinda like we were back on Earth—and they actually believe this Antitechnic bullshit.
"So we're gonna gamble that we can stop with something short of a nuke—and pay for that privilege with some lives."
Strang broke the ensuing silence. "And if we fail?"
Jones shrugged. "We don't have a backup, if that's what you mean. There isn't enough time to build a nuke at this point—even if we had the will to do so. Use the minimum amount of force necessary—but do what you have to do.
"The eggheads will start pushing nano down through the G-Tap at 2100 hours. It's gonna take the better part of seven days to get the job done. What they don't need is a whole bunch of T-heads lighting fires under their feet while they do it. Questions? No? Okay, you've got your orders. Carry them out."
The Reapers, who had been sent ahead as scouts, passed the prophet and thundered down the column. They enjoyed showing off, and did so whenever they could.
Lictor, who'd been dozing in his sedan chair, heard the commotion and sat up. An officer brought his mount to a halt, bowed formally, and delivered his report. "We saw the mountain, your eminence—the seed could reach it by nightfall."
Thrilled to have arrived, the Chosen One called for his mount, boarded the mutimal straight from his chair, and gave instructions to his aides. "March for the length of two additional prayers. Select a site with excellent drainage, a bountiful source of water, and plenty of loose rock. Deploy the Reapers to protect the seed. Put the heretics to work building a wall around the perimeter. Show no mercy, for the barrier must be completed by nightfall."
The assistant bowed, took a big step backwards, and escaped the flying mud.
Lictor had never seen the heretic stronghold and was eager to do so. He rode like the wind, felt the snowflakes sting his cheeks, wished he could yell. The ride was exhilarating— and life was good.
The robot had no real name, although the human for which it had previously worked frequently referred to it as "that worthless piece of crap."
Not being sentient, and having no emotions, the robot didn't care what it was called.
Originally designed to roll through drainage pipes, inspect crawl spaces, and perform similar tasks, the segmented machine was about three feet long and shaped like a worm. Not that its shape mattered much, since it, like a dozen similar units, had been dropped into holes and ordered to stay there. Something the robot named Crap did very well indeed.
Time passed—three days, six hours and twenty-one seconds to be exact—and vibrations shook the ground. Not the deep kind, like those generated by tremors, but thousands of minor disturbances of the sort Crap was programed to monitor.
Hours passed, and the vibrations intensified. Finally, when certain parameters had been exceeded, the robot sent a low-frequency message. An encampment had been established— and the Zid were planning to stay.
The southeast comer of the mesa offered an excellent view of the area most likely to come under attack—or would have, had the weather been better. Shelters had been established, along with the necessary command and control equipment and a makeshift mortar battery. The weapons wouldn't make much difference unless the Zid got awfully close—but would be devastating when and if they did.
Jones took the latest scans obtained from Michael, compared them to the information received from subsurface sensor number four, and saw they matched. The area around Flat Top boasted five sites capable of accommodating more than twenty thousand beings and the Zid had chosen number four.
The security officer nodded agreeably, turned to a tech, and made a request. Video blossomed as site four appeared on a monitor. There was an analysis of the most likely avenues of attack, the depth of the snow, and composition of the soil. The human smiled. So far, so good.
The mist parted, and the mountain loomed ahead. Lictor could hardly believe his eye. Nothing stood in the way! Had the heretics heard of his coming, and run for their city to the west? How disappointing—to come all that way and have nothing to show for it.
The lead Reaper, a fanatic named Orgon, had come to much the same conclusion. He thrust his weapon into the air, urged his mount to a gallop, and uttered a whoop.
The resulting explosion blew the mutimal's forelegs off and threw Orgon into the air. He landed on a second mine and vanished in a gout of flame.
The Chosen One felt pieces of wet flesh pepper his face as he hauled on the reins, turned his animal around, and kicked it in the ribs. More explosions, at least three, signaled additional deaths.
Another Reaper, eager to escape the killing ground, galloped toward the rear. Lictor, realizing that danger could lay in that direction as well, followed behind.
The cleric rode for a long way before
he felt safe enough to stop, turn, and check on his subordinates. A count revealed that four Reapers had been killed or left to die. It was a quick and bloody lesson—one Lictor would not forget. Darkness gathered, and he turned toward the east.
The area immediately around the down tube was filled with equipment, consoles, and hundreds of squirming cables. They made a strange threesome: the gaunt, almost skeletal human, the boxy synthetic, and the huge, beetle-like Mothri. They had more in common with each other than with many of their peers, however, and shared the same work ethic.
The bond started with the nano now pouring down through the vertical shaft and into the very bowels of the planet. Once in place, the micromachines would make contact with the Forerunner units, assess the damage that had been done, and set to work. That's the way it was supposed to work, anyway ... but would it?
The relationship went deeper than that, however. All three of them were lonely, cut off from the rest of their peers by personality, position, and circumstance, yet driven by the same overriding need: to save what they had created.
The three beings were tired, knew what the others were thinking, and waited in silence. All that could be said had been said—and all that could be done had been done. The nano would handle the rest.
The timer hit midnight, a contact closed, and the robot named Crap sent a probe toward the surface. It emerged from the snow, grazed a hordu's leg, and paused.
There was a distinct popping sound as a cap flew off. A rocket was fired, lasers flashed, and alien music blasted forth.
Reapers fired their assault weapons in every direction. Roughly half the seed stampeded toward the east while the rest stood and screamed. Mutimals broke their tethers, a monk was trampled under their feet, and a youngster fell in a fire.
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