Revenge of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Markiewicz tugged on her coverall, and then they burst out of the tunnel, into the courtyard, as the paving stones slid away and then closed. Two soldiers dropped a very smelly basket of lichens over the stones and busied themselves peeling them for the evening meal.

  * * * *

  Sorensen was lowering the eighteenth plate of glass into position, with Kraulshavn waggling final instructions when the boot thudded against the door. The plate came back up and went hastily down onto the table beside them while Kraulshavn signed frantically for clues.

  Tahn. They're approaching.

  Clots!

  Kraulshavn pulled at the cord hanging close to him, and the ties of a mattress cover, fastened to the rafters above them, came open. Dust clouded down around them.

  All the pieces they had worked on that day would have to be laboriously cleaned and sterilized before the project could continue.

  Sorensen swore as the two beings slid out the door of the workshop, into the corridor, and closed the door behind them. Their waiting watchman relocked the door, then covered it with more dust blown from a small bellows. He took one final precaution: Just in case the Tahn checked the corridor with heat detectors, he drooped a length of live lighting wire from the overhead so that it dangled across the cell door. Burn marks had already been artistically painted on the door, and the wire occasionally spit sparks. Any heat pickup would, everyone hoped, be attributed to that continuing short.

  The watchman wondered what the clot the two beings were doing inside that workshop. But as Mr. Kilgour had reminded him, that was na’ his't’ fash aboot. He headed for the courtyard.

  What was going on inside the workshop was the slow, laborious construction of the computer that Sten needed.

  Dreamers often wondered what would happen if they could appear in another, earlier time and build some sort of common tool that would make them gods, or even kings. The problem they never considered was that almost all technology required six steps of tooling before that trick item showed up.

  And so Sten's computer had to begin with a chip—a series of chips.

  No one would have recognized what Sorensen and Kraulshavn were constructing as a computer chip, however.

  Their “chips” were cubes, almost a third of a meter to any side. For simplicity's sake, they had decided to use a basic design of a twenty-four-layer chip. Each layer was a slab of glass. Each slab had the circuitry scratched on its surface and then acid-etched. Where each resister, diode, or whatever belonged, an open space was left. Full-scale components were either built or stolen by the working parties. The circuitry was then “wired” as molten silver was poured into the acid etching. The chips’ connecting legs were hand constructed of gold and wired in. Twenty-four of those plates made up each chip.

  They had twelve chips ready and were about a third of the way through their task.

  Both Sorensen and Kraulshavn wondered where Alex planned to put together their computer. He had not told them, and they recognized that as yet they had no need to know. They also wondered what Kilgour was planning to use for a storage facility. Another impossibility—but somehow they thought that there would be, when the time was right, an answer.

  * * * *

  Security Major Avrenti paced through the prison corridors. He growled at the prisoners, ignoring greetings and the obligatory shouts as the Imperials ordered themselves to attention as he entered each chamber.

  He imagined himself a psychic octopus, each strand of his being wisping out, trying to get the feel of his charges.

  Were they hostile—indications of a potential riot? Were they smug, hiding a secret joke—indications of an escape in the planning? Were they sullen—hope abandoned? Avrenti continued his tour.

  Kilgour watched the Tahn stroll down a corridor and stepped back out of sight.

  "What's he doing?” one of his cohorts whispered.

  "Ah dinnae ken,” Alex replied. “Hae y’ aye rec'lect tha’ any ae th’ Tahn be psychic?"

  "Clottin’ hope not."

  "We'll dinnae take th’ chance,” Alex decided.

  Avrenti finished his inspection and exited the prisoners’ quarters into their courtyard. He paused a moment, waiting for some kind of impression. Then he saw, in the courtyard's center, a medium-sized—each way—Imperial painting the courtyard. His paint had been made from wallplaster soaked in water. His brush was a knotted rag. He was painting what appeared to be a star.

  Avrenti walked up to him.

  The Imperial—Avrenti searched his mental fiche and remembered him as one Kalguard or Kilgour, a minor, unimportant being—seemed oblivious to the Tahn.

  "What are you doing?"

  The Imperial bolted to attention, whitewash splattering.

  Avrenti frowned—some of the droplets had landed on his tunic.

  "Ah ‘polgize,” Kilgour stammered. “Ah dinnae ken y’ creep."

  Avrenti barely understood what the Imperial was saying but took it as an apology. “What are you doing?"

  "Keepin't th’ Campbells off."

  "The Campbells?"

  "Aye."

  "What, may I ask, are they? Or it?"

  "Thae'll weird, dread six-leggit beasties whae live on treacheries an’ soup."

  "Nonsense,” Avrenti snorted. “I've never seen anything like that."

  "Aye,” Kilgour agreed. “M’ star's ae worker, ain’ it?"

  Avrenti looked closely at the Imperial. There was not a trace of a smile on the prisoner's face. “Yes. Carry on."

  "Aye, sir."

  Kilgour went back to painting his star, and Avrenti went out through the three gates, his mind intent on whether he should alert Commandant Derzhin to the possibility that some of the Imperials might need psychiatric care.

  Alex finished his paint job, walked three times around it, then started back for his quarters. Very well, he thought. Tha’ Avrenti's noo psychic. He's just most intent. He'll hae two watchers on him when'ever he com't through th’ gates frae noo on.

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  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TANZ SULLAMORA WAS at his repose. He sat confidently in the anteroom to the Emperor's suite, waiting patiently and confidently to be summoned. Back straight, legs crossed, brow furrowed in thought, he was the definite portrait of a great industrial baron. A man to be reckoned with. A man who had the ear of the mighty.

  The Eternal Emperor strode into the room and, without even glancing at Sullamora, walked over to the small service bar and pulled out a bottle and two glasses.

  "Tanz, old friend,” the Emperor said. “You need a drink."

  Sullamora was startled. He felt his careful pose starting to collapse about him. He had sworn to himself that he would set the tone of the meeting. Sullamora had definite ideas about what constituted Imperial behavior. Unfortunately, the Emperor did not go along with him.

  "Uh ... no. I mean, no, thank you. It's a little early."

  "Trust me, Tanz. When I say you need a drink, I mean it."

  Numbly, Sullamora took the glass. “Is there some, ah, difficulty?"

  "'Difficulty’ isn't the word I had in mind. ‘Disaster’ would be better. Ship production has gone all to hell."

  Sullamora sat up even straighten That was a serious charge. He had been put in charge of all shipbuilding in the Empire for the duration of the war.

  "But that isn't so,” he sputtered. “I mean—uh, the latest figures, Your Majesty, uh..."

  "Bull. I say ship production is dangerously off. And it's no wonder. All that labor unrest at the six plants in the Cairenes. Slowdowns. Wildcat strikes. I tell you they're endangering the progress of the war, and it has to stop!"

  That really startled Sullamora. The factories of the Cairenes were his most efficient. He started to protest, but the Emperor waved him to silence.

  "I'm not blaming you, Tanz. My lord, no one could expect one man—even a man as efficient as you—to keep abreast of all the developments. And I plan to say so at the livie news conference
tomorrow."

  "News conference? What news conference? I wasn't informed—that is to say...” Sullamora stumbled into muteness.

  He choked down his drink, all his confidence gone. Maybe the Emperor was right. But how could he have missed something like that? The Cairenes. Labor unrest. Wildcat strikes. Slowdowns. Profits in peril. It was a capitalist's greatest nightmare.

  Watching him closely, the Emperor refilled the man's glass. He let Sullamora torture himself just a little longer. There was absolutely nothing the Eternal Emperor did not know about the military-industrial establishment and how to keep it under his very heavy thumb.

  "You gotta keep them off balance,” he had once told Mahoney. ‘To them, cost overrun is just another word for paradise."

  Finally he took pity on the man—but just a little bit. He started laughing. Sullamora looked up at him, totally bewildered and unmanned.

  "Don't you get it, Tanz? This is just one of my little ploys."

  "You mean it's a joke?” Sullamora sputtered.

  "No joke. I've never been more serious. Look. I lay this out at the news conference. Announce that I've called for an investigation by the Imperial Labor Commission."

  "What labor commission?"

  "Clot, you're thick sometimes. There's no such animal. I'm just saying there is. Like the labor unrest and declining shipbuilding figure stuff. By the time the Tahn figure out that I'm lying through my teeth, you should be able to crank out minimum twelve more ships that they won't be aware of."

  Sullamora lifted his eyebrows. “Ah, now I understand."

  It had something to do with the rumored buildup, he realized. Where, no one was sure. Although, now that he thought of it, maybe the rumors were also part of the Emperor's unroyallike and very slippery planning.

  "There's something coming, isn't there, sir?” he asked. “Something big. Is it anything you can tell me about?"

  "No offense, Tanz, but that's a negative. I've got to play these cards really close to my chest. If the Tahn get even a hint, we're in a world of drakh."

  That was something Sullamora finally could understand. He was an old hand at playing shadow games with business rivals, although rarely did those games result in more than a little bloodshed.

  "This much I can tell you,” the Emperor continued. “If this works out, the war will be over in four years. Five tops. If I can smack them, and smack them good, they may never really recover.

  "Oh, they can keep fighting for a while. But it'll be all over but final surrender. On my terms."

  Even Sullamora's frigid soul had to shudder at that thought. He would hate to be on the receiving end of a contract dictated by the Emperor.

  "Of course, I do expect a few immediate benefits. Such as the signal that will be sent to any of my wavering allies and the fence sitters."

  After a moment he added in a near whisper, “I think it's the fence sitters that irritate me the most."

  Sullamora felt his mouth go dry. He felt he should say something, but for some reason he was suddenly afraid. And then the moment passed. The Emperor took Sullamora's glass and put it and the bottle away. Sullamora was being dismissed.

  "Plan on a five-minute speech tomorrow, Tanz,” the Emperor said. “My flack can get together with your flack tonight. Put what I want you to say in your own words."

  Sullamora rose. He started to say his good-byes, then paused. With some amusement, the Emperor watched the other man screw up his courage to speak. He kept silent, deciding not to help him.

  "I've, uh ... Ah. Your Majesty, I've been wondering,” Sullamora finally got out.

  "Yes?” The Emperor's voice was flat; he was still not helping.

  "After the war, uh ... What do you plan to do?"

  "Get very drunk,” the Emperor said. “It's a good habit to get into before you count the dead."

  "No, sir. That's not what I meant ... uh, sir. See, I've been talking to the other members of the privy council, and ... What I mean to say is ... What do you intend to do with us?"

  The Emperor had created the privy council just after the outbreak of war. On it he had placed Sullamora and several other beings important to his cause. In theory they were supposed to advise him. The Eternal Emperor had never meant to listen to them. It was just his way of making them feel important and keeping them out of his hair. Like the Imperial Parliament. The Eternal Emperor was a great believer in the trappings of democracy. It was one of the essential underpinnings of an absolute monarchy.

  He pretended to consider Sullamora's question.

  "I don't know,” he said. “Disband the council, I guess. Why?"

  "Well, we think that if we've been of use to you during war, then think what we can do during peace. I mean, there are certain concerns we have, Your Majesty, that it would be impossible for you to be aware of."

  Riigght, the Emperor thought. I'll bet you'd just love that. No way was he going to have an advisory body with any kind of official recognition. But why tell Sullamora that?

  He also tucked aside the man's comment that the privy council members had even been suggesting such a thing among themselves. Perhaps he had better start keeping closer track of them.

  The Eternal Emperor smiled his most charming smile. “That is a thought, Tanz,” he said. “I'll be sure to keep it in mind."

  He wore the smile until Sullamora had exited. The smile disappeared when the door closed.

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  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE TAHN HAD unwittingly provided the prisoners of Koldyeze with the ideal hiding place for their reinvented computer: the general-purpose sanitation facility. The Tahn had approached the problem of sanitation for so many prisoners with typical single-minded efficiency. Thirteen cells had been turned into one huge room by the simple application of sledgehammers to the walls. One area was devoted to lavatory facilities. Another contained half a dozen gigantic and ancient industrial washing machines. A third was to be used for showering. And on another were nearly 100 washbasins. Above those were an equal number of large mirrors sunk into the stone wall.

  Alex had replaced thirty-six of them with the mirror-surfaced chips that made up the computer. They swung out on hinges designed by Hernandes after pictures he recalled from a course he had taken on “Ancient Engineers” in his student days. They were linked together by cryogenic wire scavenged by St. Clair from the motor coils of abandoned gravsleds.

  Next problem: software. Despite the size of the computer, it was a basic pea brain. It would not be able to handle too many facts at a time, much less compare and analyze them against a mounting pile of data being gathered by Sten's surveyors, scavengers, and work-party spies.

  The solution required two very different but equally elegant minds: Sorensen and Kraulshavn. The big farm boy boiled everything down to the smallest possible level of expression. That reduced everything by about eighty percent. Still too much. Then Kraulshavn performed the impossible. He created a symbol language in which a single squiggle might represent a hundred screens of data. The written language of the ancient Chinese was a mere glimmer of Kraulshavn's art.

  Next came the difficult problem of communication with the electronic moron. In such primitive conditions, how did one send and receive symbols? Oddly enough, the answer came rather simply. Why not a spark transmitter? Sten had asked. Alex had just gaped at him a moment and then put his little team to work on it. They quickly broke Kraulshavn's symbol language down into dots and dashes. A simple key—a spring device manipulated by hand—was used to transmit. A tiny speaker was used to receive the computer's buzzing response.

  The memory banks had created the biggest problem. No one had been able to offer even a silly suggestion for storing the data. Alex had lied to Kraulshavn and Sorensen, telling them that he had the solution in mind and urging them to press on with the computer. As the on-line date grew closer and closer, Alex found himself growing increasingly frustrated.

  Ibn Bakr gave him the answer. The big tailor needed to ag
e cloth to make Tahn peasant costumes. He used a mild caustic in near-boiling-temperature water and washed the cloth over and over again in one of the huge industrial washing machines. One day Alex found himself considering the problem as he stood in front of the machine, hypnotized by the twin agitators chugging back and forth. His jaw dropped as he realized he was staring at the answer. If he played with the gearing ... spooled wire from one spindle to another ... reversed the polarity of the wire ... then fed the data from the computer to the wire ... Voila! After several thousand years, Kilgour had reinvented the wire recorder.

  Finally the big moment had come. Sten and Alex hovered over Sorensen and Kraulshavn as they got ready to fire up the computer. Sorensen wagged his fingers for Kraulshavn to start. The being shook its head. No. Finger wagging came back.

  "What's the problem?” Sten asked.

  "He says it needs a name.” Sorensen laughed. “Otherwise it won't know who we're talking to."

  Sten buried a groan of impatience. It was obviously important to Kraulshavn. The last thing he needed was a big pouting bird for a programmer.

  "How about Brainerd?” Sten suggested. “Wasn't he the guy way back when who got us all into this computer mess?"

  Sorensen ran it through for Kraulshavn. No problem. Brainerd it was. Feathered appendages manipulated the key. Tiny sparks began rhythmically leaping between the gap. Sten imagined the dot-dash symbols flowing along the wire. Unconsciously he found himself leaning over the small speaker, waiting for the crackling response of the computer.

  Nothing. More flying ringers. More sparks.

  "Come on, you little clot,” Sten breathed. “Wake the hell up ... Come on ... Come on ... Speak to us..."

  There was a crackling stutter. Then silence.

  "Clot! What the hell's wrong with it?"

  "Patience, young Horrie,” Alex said. “Maybe the wee beastie is afeared to wake up."

  After all the time and energy invested, Sten failed to see any humor in the situation. He was all for putting the boot into it—and he did not mean the electronic variety. A big, heavy leather boot was more along his line of thinking.