“Haven’t seen the general this morning,” the executive officer observed. “What did you do to him?”
Booly tried an experimental sip of coffee, approved, and took another. “What did I do to him? The bastard drank me under the table.”
“Maybe,” Winters replied thoughtfully. “But you’re here, and he isn’t.”
Booly eyed her over a piece of toast. Winters had that look again—the one that preceded some sort of surprise. “All right, Captain, why the ambush? What have you been up to?”
Winters summoned her most innocent expression. “Me? Nothing, sir. I assumed the colonel would expect an After Action report and, having received it, would accompany the captain on an inspection.”
Booly raised his eyebrows, Winters smiled, and the deal was done. The report took place in Booly’s office, and was both better and worse than he had expected.
Chien-Chu Enterprises had delivered another load of volunteers, which meant that he had more leg soldiers than the day he reported for duty. That was the good news.
The bad news was that they were down to only thirty-five borgs and, unlike the rebs, had very little conventional armor to take up the slack.
That news was depressing, damned depressing, and it dragged at Booly’s spirits. They might survive one more battle, if they were lucky; then it would be over.
If Winters was depressed, there was no visible sign of it as she led him onto a lift and touched a button. The elevator lurched and fell. Booly eyed the indicator. It stopped on sub-level six—the very depths of the war-era catacombs.
The doors slid open, and Captain Ny stepped forward to greet them. The six-foot-tall utility body had the appearance of a titanium skeleton. It whirred to attention. The salute was perfect. “Welcome to the center of the Earth, Colonel. Visitors are always welcome.”
Booly lifted an eyebrow. “Thanks, Captain. I’m in a bad mood today ... so your dirt had better be clean.”
The other officers chuckled and led the way.
It took the better part of fifteen minutes for the cyborg to lead the bio bods through a maze of tunnels, past a pile of recently excavated dirt, and into a man-made cavern. It was cool, dry, and stank of ozone. Floodlights had been rigged, and Booly was amazed by what he saw.
The vault contained hundreds of shrink-wrapped Trooper II bodies, and farther out, barely visible through the murk, huge, hulking quads, their weapons encased in spray-foam, their armor covered by a thick layer of dust.
“They’ve been here all along,” Ny explained, “stockpiled back during the war. Forgotten, written off, who the hell knows? My people found them while repairing bomb damage. One of Harco’s subsurface torpedos burrowed in but failed to detonate.”
“But are they operable?” Booly asked, his heart beating faster than it had been.
“Good question, sir,” Winters put in. “How ’bout it, Reeger? Will the damned things work?”
Servos whined as one of the Trooper IIs came to sudden life, walked out into the center of the chamber, and came to attention. His voice boomed through external speakers. “Ma’am! Yes, ma’am!”
Winters watched her commanding officer’s face and saw everything she had hoped for. “Happy birthday, sir, and many happy returns.”
Booly looked at Reeger, checked his wrist term, and started to laugh. It was his birthday! And there was hope.
Fort Portal was something far different from what the name seemed to suggest. More hospital than fort, it was home to hundreds of war veterans, many of whom had fought one battle too many and were waiting to die. Of their wounds, boredom, or old age. Nobody cared.
Lights twinkled from the low, one-story buildings, crickets chirped, and fireflies flitted through the soft night air.
It was a pleasant evening—and why not? Most evenings were pleasant at Fort Portal. The town, which was founded in 1893, was originally called Fort Gerry and then renamed for Sir Gerald Portal, an English adventurer. The rebel-controlled complex was located nearly two hundred and thirty miles west of Kampala about five thousand feet above sea level.
All of which was nice, or would have been, had Captain Horace Imbey been twenty years older, and ready for retirement. Such was not the case, however—no, not by a long shot.
Imbey stood six feet three inches tall. He had the body of an athlete, and a fire in his belly. He wanted—no, deserved—to be where the action was, where he could distinguish himself, and would settle for nothing less. That’s why he had submitted no less than thirty-six SFM-690s, prayed twice a day, and roamed the grounds at night. He was antsy, bored, and generally pissed off. Not that it made any difference.
Imbey had just climbed out of the guard truck, and was about to stage a raid on Sergeant Hooly’s kitchen, when he noticed a buzzing sound. A transport? No, not till the day after tomorrow. What, then? A giant mosquito?
The fly form looked like all fly forms, including those that belonged to the IWG. An inspection, perhaps? No problem, Imbey was ready.
That being the case, the officer wasn’t too concerned until the second cybernetic aircraft appeared and started its final approach.
Later, when the locals discussed the matter, some gave the officer credit for drawing his sidearm and blasting away. Others, and they were in the majority, thought he was stupid.
Whatever the case, Hawkins, along with Neversmile and his Naa commandos, were able to liberate 1,021 “surplus” cyborgs. It took exactly forty-six minutes and twelve seconds to unhook their brain boxes from the coma-inducing life-support system, load them onto the fly forms, and haul ass. Or was it brain?
There was only one casualty. The locals, unable to decide what belonged to the truck and what belonged to Imbey, buried them together. The hole was bigger—but the result was the same.
19
Those who say that religion has nothing to do with politics do not know what religion means.
Mohandas K. Gandhi
Indian spiritual and political leader
Standard year circa 1900
Somewhere beyond the Rim, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
Every now and then, every other cycle or so, the Hoon liked to tour the fleet. The easiest way to accomplish that was to choose two or three hundred of the more than twenty thousand surveillance devices at his disposal and spend a tenth of a second on each.
Though once routine, the excursions had been more rewarding of late, ever since the soft body had gone forth to “preach the gospel”—the essence of which seemed to consist of blocking thoroughfares, praising the supreme intelligence known as “God,” and seeking “converts,” which is to say semiautonomous units willing to listen to the human’s rantings.
The entire process seemed like a waste of time and resources except for one thing: Interspersed with the nonsense regarding God was a good deal of anti-Thraki rhetoric. And, like it or not, the artificial intelligence had no choice but to support sentients that shared the same mission it had: Find Thraki and kill them.
Still, the Hoon had encountered a considerable number of soft bodies prior to the human, literally thousands of them, and knew many were disposed to say one thing yet do something else.
That being the case, the artificial intelligence decided that a test case was in order—a test that would either secure the human’s position within the fleet, or prove he was lying. A finding that would remove the soft body from the protected classification and mark him for immediate disposal. It was a good plan, a perfect plan, as evidenced by the fact that the Hoon had conceived of it.
The Hoon switched perspectives, watched the soft body walk down a corridor, and noticed that his “flock” had grown. No less than six units of various shapes, sizes, and classifications had taken to following the human around. Why?
One was of Thraki manufacture. The rest were his. A quick check of their service records showed that at least some of them were overdue for maintenance. Others seemed normal enough, which made for inconclusive results.
A distant and rat
her minor member of the fleet noticed something of potential interest and sent a message to that effect. The Hoon went to investigate. The human, and those who served him, were of secondary importance.
His spirits buoyed by Henry’s return and his steadily growing band of followers, Jepp felt happy, and knew that it was here, among heathen machines, that he had finally found his calling. Even his graffiti had a joyful quality, running as it did to “Rejoice in God!” “Kill the Thraki!” and “Love Thy Neighbor!”
And, thanks to his flock’s ability to replicate such messages with machinelike precision, his sayings would soon occupy more and more of the otherwise blank bulkheads.
Also bolstering Jepp’s spirits was the fact that his newfound respectability translated to additional freedom. Previously locked doors opened to his touch, shuttles obeyed most of his commands, and, with some minor exceptions, robots did his bidding.
And that was the only real problem he had. Except for Henry, the rest of his followers were nonsentient and bereft of souls. They were useful, especially within the context of his more grandiose fantasies, but not as satisfying as the kind of believers who have something to lose and choose to submit.
Ah, well, the prospector thought to himself, patience is a virtue. Time will pass, and God will show the way.
The caverns, some of which were natural and some of which had been carved out of solid rock, stretched on for miles and created huge reverberation chambers. The horn sounded, and the air vibrated in sympathy.
Keeta, a cub of less than eight solar rotations, skidded around a comer, bumped an elder, and yelled an apology over her shoulder. The youngster had a message for Dantha the priest—which meant that all things would be forgiven. The excitement of the moment, the pleasure of running full tilt, filled the youngster with joy.
The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, and a stranger might have gone astray, but not Keeta, who was but an infant when the fleet had expelled the sect and left it to fend for itself. She knew every tunnel, every cove, and how music moved through each.
The youngster took a left, a right, and let her feet fly, for here was a long stretch, and, judging from the call of the horn, the procession lay just around the bend.
Adult voices called out, urged the cub to be careful, but there was no time to reply.
Keeta saw vestments up ahead, the story pole from which multicolored ribbons fluttered, and the slowly moving processional. And there, walking at the front, was Dantha, priest, uncle, and a friend.
The cub passed the horn player, came abreast of the priest, and tugged at his sleeve. “Uncle Dantha! I have a message! An important message!”
Dantha knew his niece—and knew it must be true. He stopped, the horn paused in mid-groan, and everyone strained to hear. The colony numbered barely five hundred souls, was cut off from all commerce with the outside, and was short on entertainment. A message, especially an urgent message, was something special.
Dantha knelt next to the cub. “Yes, little one? What is it?”
“The Sheen are coming!”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath as the members of the processional sucked air into their lungs, followed by something Keeta had never seen before. Her uncle was afraid.
For the first time since Jepp had boarded the ship, the Hoon sent a message to him, rather than the other way around.
The text came through Alpha and was translated by Sam. The human listened to it three times, and the syntax remained the same: “Thraki have been detected... let God’s will be done.”
Jepp began to panic. His heart beat faster, and sweat beaded his brow. Did the message constitute a comment? A suggestion? A commandment? What did it mean?
The prospector fed an inquiry back through Sam and Alpha, but there was no response. The Hoon had spoken—and there was nothing to add.
The human voiced his concern to Henry, who, knowing the human as it did, was quick to identify the critical facts. Since its present body had no vocal apparatus, it was necessary to communicate through Sam. “How did you represent yourself to the Hoon? As a lost prospector? Or something more?”
Jepp was offended. “I made mention of God’s work, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” the computer replied cynically. “What else?”
“Well, there was some discussion about a race called the Thraki, and the fact that the Sheen are on a mission to find and eliminate them.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Henry said disgustedly. “You signed on.”
Jepp looked away. “No, not exactly.”
“But close.”
The human turned back. The tone was petulant. “So, what if I did? There was no other choice.”
The navcomp would have sighed, had such a thing been possible. “I think the message is pretty clear: They found some Thraki—and the Hoon wants you to kill them.”
“Why me?” Jepp asked desperately. “The Hoon could kill them himself.”
“It’s a test,” the AI replied patiently, “to see what you’ll do.”
The better part of a minute passed while the human considered the matter. When he spoke, the words fell one at a time. “So it’s kill or be killed.”
“Essentially,” Henry replied.
“Unless . . .” Jepp said.
“Unless what?”
“Unless I could convert the Thraki, and convince the Hoon to accept them.”
“Dream on,” the AI said simply. “The Hoon is a computer, and computers don’t change. I should know.”
“You grow,” Jepp responded. “You learn. What about that?”
“Okay,” Henry said levelly. “Have it your way.”
“No,” Jepp said sanctimoniously. “Let God’s will be done.”
In spite of the fact that Dantha had heard seemingly endless stories about the Sheen, and been forced to organize most of his adult life around them, he’d never actually seen one of the nearly mythical constructs. Not with his own eyes.
That being the case, the priest felt a sort of fascinated dread as the Sheen shuttle hovered over the moon’s heavily cratered surface and lowered itself into the lock.
If one believed in Thraki lore, and as a priest it had been his job to do so, the Sheen were programmed to exterminate his race.
But were such stories true? Not having seen such machines themselves, many Thrakis had come to doubt such tales, in spite of battle footage to the contrary.
And that was one of the main reasons why Dantha’s sect had gone its own way. That, and the fact that violence solves nothing.
And now, as the shuttle landed on carefully planed volcanic rock, and the dome sealed itself closed, there was even more reason to hope. After all, why send emissaries if the only option was war? No, it seemed the stories were exaggerated.
Thus encouraged, the priest watched the hatch open and examined the being who emerged. There was no sign of weapons or other military paraphernalia. Though somewhat taller than the average Thraki, and less than pleasant to look at, the creature had two eyes, two arms, and two legs, all of which argued for at least some degree of commonality. Of equal interest was the fact that the visitor had a biological rather than a mechanical body.
There were machines, however, two of them—one of which looked familiar, as if it might be of Thraki manufacture. It transformed itself into a wheel and rolled across the surface of the laser-smoothed rock.
The other machine glowed the way the Sheen were supposed to, followed the biological off the shuttle, and showed no signs of aggression.
His fears alleviated by the low-key manner in which his visitors presented themselves, Dantha, closely followed by a delegation of elders, went to greet them. He held his hands palms outward. “Peace.”
Sam transformed itself into communicator mode, made the necessary translation, and passed the reply back. “My master comes with peace in his heart—but with a warning as well. The Sheen wait in the blackness of space and are sworn to kill you.”
Dantha felt his chest constrict and heard the elders start to moan. Hopes dashed, the priest fought to maintain his composure. “We are sorry to hear that... for it was our intention to live here in peace. Is that why you were sent? To tell us that the Sheen are going to kill us?”
“No,” the human replied quickly. “I came because there might be a chance to save you and your colony. If we can convince a computer called the Hoon.”
“The Hoon?” Dantha’s ears flicked backward, the Thraki equivalent of a frown. “The Way” included no less than seven demonic figures, each associated with a particular sin, but the worst of the lot was the terrible Hoonara, taker of souls, king of questions, and giver of lies. Coincidence? Or something more?
The priest chose his words with care. “Why does the Hoon wish to destroy us?”
The other being gestured with the upper portion of his torso. “I don’t know. But it does tolerate my existence, and might tolerate yours, if you came to God.”
Dantha listened to the translation, assumed the use of “God” singular was some sort of error, and asked the obvious question. “The gods dwell on a higher plane—how can we go to them?”
“Not ‘them,’ ” Jepp corrected. “Him. There is only one God. You must go to Him in the spiritual sense, by believing that He exists, and is all-powerful.”
Dantha was incredulous. “A single god? Who is all-powerful? We could never believe in such an aberration.”
“But you must,” the human said desperately, “or the Sheen will destroy your colony.”
Dantha felt a great stubbornness rise from deep within his soul. The same stubborness that caused him to follow the non-violent way and to preach that philosophy to others. Even when the hierarchy objected, even when they threatened to expel him, even in the face of death. “Then they will destroy us... for our religion is the very heart of our culture.”
They were strong words, fateful words, but the elders murmured their support.
By Blood Alone Page 27