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Out in the pit, next to the hatch, under a hard rain, they secured Peck to the center of the carrier bed. He was wrapped in rags and scraps of insulation so the clamps wouldn't cut into him when he struggled, and he twisted his head back and forth, an anguished expression on his bony face, wretched as a demon with his snakes of iridescent gray hair. Bromley and McGlowrie occupied the outside positions on the bed, making a sandwich of Peck and Denise. Once Denise and Bromley were locked in place, lying on their backs, arms and legs in their hardened suits resembling sausage links, McGlowrie set about securing himself. He maintained a degree of flexibility in his suit, allowing him to hold his sidearm and to direct the carrier by typing in instructions on his forearm keypad. Lying on his right side enabled him to see both ahead and behind, yet the clamps—though he had cut them to conform to that posture—did not hold him as tightly as they did the others. The spare implant was safely tucked away in a thigh pouch. He adjusted his audio, reducing the roaring to a background whisper, so he could hear sounds closer at hand and, after running down his checklist a final time, started them up the pit wall.
Under McGlowrie's control, the carrier moved at half-speed and in an ungainly fashion, like a beetle afflicted with the staggers. Thanks to the laggardly pace, the ride was smoother than he had expected, the carrier's legs—its clawed hands, rather—reaching for cracks, hitching itself along, conveying to the riders a succession of swaying motions, each followed by a mild jolt. He had hoped to be quicker. Plan B would have failed if Peck hadn't been with them; the HKs, not the most agile of climbers, would have overtaken them before they climbed a tenth of the way out. Eleven HKs, including the machine he had reprogrammed, their bodies flipped so their treads were up, using their arms to climb, trailed behind the carrier, keeping an unvarying five-yard gap between them. McGlowrie pictured them as roaches inching along, scaling a gray kitchen wall. The carrier traversed a diagonal shelf that brought them to a point about fifty yards west of the hatch, at a height of seventy feet. They were passing into a region of dingy clouds, into thicker volumes of dust. Peck's eyes were shut tight, his every muscle tensed. Denise's eyes, too, were closed, but her face, what he could see of it through the rain spatter and smears of dust on her faceplate, betrayed no strain. Bromley kept lifting his head, trying to keep the HKs in view. For his part, McGlowrie felt relieved that they were on their way, though he doubted they would come to a good end. He glanced back and, through drifts of dust, made out a dark blue object, roughly bullet-shaped, pulled up beside the hatch. He had only a glimpse before the clouds sealed them off, but he was certain it had been a security vehicle. Their would-be rescuers had gone straight for the tunnel. The last time McGlowrie had been stranded in the pit, they hadn't been so efficient. It was conceivable they had a left a trail for the vehicle to follow, or a signal had been sent, perhaps an alarm tripped during their occupation of the tunnel. Which might mean the company knew about the implant. If that were the case, why would they leave Peck alive? Peck was a loose end, but McGlowrie concluded that the company was too arrogant to worry about loose ends, particularly those protected by a trillion machines and a deadly environment. He was not, he decided, going to be able to settle the question now, what with the jolting of the carrier and the HKs in pursuit; but the potential of company involvement added a new variable, one he would have think about before they reached Ghost Creek.
At two hundred feet, the carrier broke free of clouds into a zone of relative clarity and lighter precipitation. As they rounded a bend in the pit wall, McGlowrie saw that, less than a quarter-mile ahead, one of the old gods of the pit was being slaughtered: a mobile excavator, its cranelike upper arm locked onto the rim several hundred feet above, its base hidden from sight, creeping along on treads as tall as a five-story building. Thousands of hunter-killers swarmed over its surfaces, cutting away parts that fell into the roiling clouds below, a steady rain of debris. It was difficult to distinguish predators from prey, for both were coated in rust; but every square foot of the excavator appeared agitated, seething, and McGlowrie spotted the pinprick flares of plasma torches at intervals along its reach.
He turned the carrier aside from the excavator, not wishing to test whether Peck's neck implant would prove effective against so many HKs, and chose a route to the rim that sent them backtracking for twenty yards then angled sharply upward. At three hundred and seventy feet, he spotted a rock chimney that led up to the rim. He sent the HK he had reprogrammed to a remove and began picking off those still in pursuit, blowing eight off the wall (two had gone off to join the happy throng engaged in dismembering the excavator). They fell away into the clouds, their arms flailing. He climbed the chimney at a good clip—he'd grown more proficient at controlling the carrier—and paused it in a notch below the rim, where he could keep the bed on a relatively even keel. Bromley started to speak, but McGlowrie shushed him. Denise made eye contact. He gave her a wink, which she did not return. Peck looked to be in a catatonic state. The uppermost reaches of the pit were flocked by countless dysfunctional fliers, milling about to no purpose and preyed upon by aggregate creatures, the largest consisting of several dozen fliers that had linked together in a radical attempt at self-repair. They flew poorly, jittering about, as on the choppy surface of a lake, bobbling among the swarms, seeking to bond with other fliers, destroying most with clumsy misapplications of energy, occasionally succeeding in adding a new component. Eventually they would grow too heavy for flight and drop like stones to the pit floor.
—Let's go, said Bromley. What are you waiting for?
—The AI might divert more HKs to track us. I'd rather handle them here. Peck's implants may not work once we get beyond the rim.
—Why's that? They've held up this far.
—Because that's how the AIs design things. HKs and carriers are the only machines allowed topside. The rest shut down, they move one inch out of the pit.
—If you're right about the AI, about it wanting to get the other implant out, said Denise, you have to assume Peck's stuff is designed to work topside.
—I'd rather not assume anything, said McGlowrie.
He debated whether to release the clamp that held Bromley to the carrier. The boy had gone well past being a pain in the ass. He decided Bromley's window of potential usefulness was still open … though it was closing fast. There was, however, no longer any need to humor him.
—You ever think there's something weird about your luck? Denise asked.
McGlowrie laughed, watching the clouds below. Depends what you mean by weird.
—The first time you're stranded, a conveyor breaks down and draws off the HKs. Now it's an excavator.
—Machines are always breaking down.
—Not the big ones. And look how many times you've lucked out just on this trip. In the cab, with Saddler. Then there's the HK by the ore crusher, and the …
—Don't forget the one that attacked us.
—I thought about that. It was damaged—maybe the damage caused it not to react in the right way to you.
—So you're saying … what?
—Maybe when you were stranded years ago, when you were unconscious, maybe an AI did something to you. Something like it did to Peck.
—You know, you're right, said McGlowrie. It tuned up my pecker, removed my brain and replaced it with a radio. I'm a new fucking man.
—I'm serious.
—The company had me thoroughly checked out, for Christ's sake.
—They could have missed something.
—Can we postpone this conversation until we're out of danger? Please?
Trying to calm himself, he squinted upward through the rain at the churning clouds above the Emperor, and at the rim little more than an arm's length away.
—You're too lucky, she said sullenly, then said no more.
When no further HKs came after them, he keyed in an instruction and directed the carrier to climb to the edge of the rim, so he could see what lay ahead�
��an apocalyptic plain, gray rock and patches of brown lichen, here and there a twisted tree, snowpeaks distant as fairy tales, and—out of sight for the moment—sick HKs wandering. The ones that remained topside were those that had been broken in some way. Bromley spoke again, and McGlowrie switched off his audio. He eased the carrier onto level ground, keyed in a destination—the railhead that lay equidistant from Ghost Creek and Allamance—and let the machine's original programming take over, setting a rapid pace over the uneven ground that caused Peck to wake and throw himself about, his mouth gaping in silent outcry. They negotiated a narrow peninsular area between canyons, one that permitted them to look down into the pit on both sides, into a dusty gray boil that obscured a million violences. Within minutes they had put the Emperor behind them, its presence marked by a smoky disturbance against the low clouds. McGlowrie felt an indefinite sense of loss and speculated as to what would become of them should they survive.
Where would they go? And what work would they find? The carrier high-stepped along, its double-jointed legs pumping, interrupting his view of the surround. Seen at jolting intervals, the plain acquired the surreal aspect of a huge abandoned chessboard, gray and brown squares with wrecks scattered about like deformed mechanical pawns, memorializing a disastrous endgame.
They traveled west-southwest for twenty minutes, covering a third of the mileage to Ghost Creek; the rain slackened to a fitful drizzle. McGlowrie thought the company must have had patrols out recently to exterminate the stray HK population, because he hadn't seen a one. Usually they were all over, weaving on busted treads, going in circles, attacking one another. Thus far, everything had broken their way, and he thought about what Denise had said, that he was too lucky. Shortly after thinking this, as if by acknowledging luck he had broken the spell that sustained it, he spotted four HKs sweeping toward them from the south and felt a cold thrill across his belly. These machines did not act dysfunctional and they were coming full-speed. Whenever they hit an obstruction or a low rise, they sailed up into the air, stabilized themselves in mid-flight, and made perfect landings on their treads, seeming to bound across the plain like antelopes. The jolting of the bed prevented him from firing—at this distance he had no chance of hitting them, anyway. He directed the HK he had reprogrammed to attack the quickest of the four, but the other three continued their pursuit. Whether or not Peck's implants were working, the three HKs did not violate the five-yard limit and fell in behind the carrier, behavior that signaled they were confused as to the appropriateness of their prey. Chaos erupted on the carrier bed. Denise had restored the flexibility to her suit and was tugging at her gun. Bromley screamed and pried at the clamp imprisoning him; Peck thrashed even more violently. Now that the HKs were near to hand, McGlowrie could see that they were impaired. The one on the left had only half a complement of armor; the other two had multiple burn spots on their casings, usually denoting a failed repair.
He shouted at Denise, telling her to take the one on the right, and opened fire on the HK to his left; he shifted his aim to the remaining HK, the most damaged of the three, as it sped closer and swiped at the carrier with an arm. The others kept their distance, proving that Peck's implant was still effective—if it hadn't been, they would have joined the badly damaged one in its attack. Denise and McGlowrie fired and fired, sidearms chattering, set on automatic, a noise that drowned out the carrier's rattle. After what must have been no more than a few seconds, yet seemed longer, the HKs were turned aside, their casings pierced by explosive rounds. McGlowrie watched them wobbling across the plain, growing smaller and smaller, until he was certain they were disabled. The reprogrammed HK did not return, and McGlowrie was forced to accept that they had lost an ally. He began to relax. Then Denise cried out, Stop! You have to stop! She pointed at Peck, who had passed out. His right calf had been savaged in the attack, the muscles torn loose from the bone, and he was bleeding heavily. McGlowrie shut down the carrier and released Denise's clamp. She fumbled out her medi-kit and began working on Peck's leg.
—Let me up, said Bromley.
—There's no reason, McGlowrie said, coming to one knee.
—I've got to piss.
—I should have said, I don't have any reason to let you up.
—Come on, man! Don't …
McGlowrie switched off Bromley's radio.
—You should let him up, said Denise, intent upon Peck's leg.
—Little while ago you were begging me to kill him. Now you're making nice?
She did not respond, working feverishly to stem the bleeding.
A rust-brown fleck moved in the distance.
—Hurry it along, he said.
—I'm hurrying.
Half a minute passed, and he made out a second brownish fleck, closing from the southwest.
—Actually, he said, maybe we should get rid of them both.
She glanced up at him.
—We've got company, he said.
—Shit! She turned again to Peck's leg.
—We've got your implant. We don't need Peck … or Bromley.
—We'll be all right. Give me a few seconds.
She bent to her task, applying a pressure bandage. McGlowrie waited, waited, and saw a third reddish-brown spot moving toward them. None of the machines looked to be traveling at great speed, but he was worried nonetheless. They were very near the point where he would have to decide between Ghost Creek and Allamance. He didn't feel up to making any more decisions, but the appearance of the security vehicle back in the pit had caused him to recalibrate his judgment, to wonder how much he could trust his contacts in Ghost Creek. If the company was looking for them, that would put undue pressure on his relationship with Rocky Alkazoff … and Rocky was not one to rock the boat. Allamance was an unknown quantity. If it was him alone, he thought, he'd try the wilderness area west of Ghost Creek. But with Denise injured, he had no recourse except to get her somewhere she could receive attention.
A fourth speck.
—That's it, McGlowrie said. We're dumping them.
—What's the point?
McGlowrie tried to pull Denise away, but she resisted. What the hell's wrong with you? he said.
—I'm almost done! There! It's finished … all right? She got to her knees, favoring her wounded leg, and went face-to-face with McGlowrie. We might need Bromley's contacts.
—I've got his contacts.
—It's not the same if he's dead. He can vouch for us.
—You think you can count on him?
Silence; through his helmet he could hear the wind and a faint roaring.
—I don't know, she said. It's an option. Why eliminate it?
—Because his contacts are idiots! They don't know enough to wipe themselves. If they did, they wouldn't have sent people into the pit. Because …
McGlowrie broke off, feeling pressure against the neck of his suit, and realized that Denise had jammed the barrel of her weapon against his throat. He considered taking a chance—with a wounded ankle, her balance would be shaky; but before he could complete his deliberation, she had secured his sidearm, his projector, and the control, and had backed away.
—Because he killed Saddler, he said.
She told him to get down off the carrier; he hesitated, and she chambered a round.
—I'm going, he said.
He jumped down from the carrier and moved away from it, following her instructions. He scanned the plain. The reddish-brown flecks were no longer visible, but that didn't mean much. You're telling me you trust Bromley? he asked. You trust him more than me?
—I'm trusting myself, she said.
—You won't make it without me.
She said nothing, training the gun on him.
—Goddamn it, Denise!
—No, she said. With you, I'm dead. Sooner or later, you'll make one of those it's-her-or-me decisions. Or else your luck will get me. I don't trust your luck.
—You're wrong.
— I've gone as far as I can with you.
/> —You're fucking wrong! About the luck … about everything. You don't understand what's been going on with me.
—Oh yeah! I know all about it, she said. You love me! You'd die for me, you love me so much.
—Yeah, well. That would be appear to be the case.
—I'm sorry, she said.
—Sorry doesn't do much for me.
—It's all I've got.
She must have inadvertently switched on Bromley's radio, because he blurted out a few words, something about … acting precipitately …and then went silent.
—You don't even know how to work the remote, McGlowrie said.
—I'll figure it out.
—Listen. The choppers must have done an extermination in the last day or two. They aren't near as many HKs out here as I figured on. It looks like they got rid of the quick ones. But we've got four on our ass right now. And we can expect more. They're all fucked up, it looks like. I'd say it's fifty-fifty we can outrun them to Ghost Creek. That's if we give them Bromley and Peck to play with. But if I'm not there, if the controls fuck up … and they might, you know, because I had to work way too fast on them, and I'm not sure of the programming. If that happens, you're dead.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 50