by Pam Uphoff
The patter of falling debris stopped and he crawled out to look. The flimsy camp was flattened for a hundred feet all around, a dozen fires starting. The battered sheet of plywood that had sheltered him was charred, he dropped it and retreated as flames starting to flicker around smoking holes in the canvas tent he was standing on.
Unnoticeable! I'm unnoticeable.
The gate building was gone, no sign of a gate. The vehicles that had been waiting on the street were battered and charred.
Glad I jumped to the side! He limped off, away from the destruction.
His head was aching—too much magic or a blow, hard to say. But he clung to the spell and dodged cyborgs running for the gate site. The smoke behind him turned to steam as they extinguished the flames . . . and that was the building they'd been taking the bodies into . . .
He walked casually up to it, trying not to limp.
If it's a hospital, they'll be bringing patients in . . .
Even as he thought it, the first arrived, on a battered, scorched, flatbed truck.
Mirk circled the building and tried a side door. A corridor that ran the width of the building. Doors on both sides. He opened the first door to his right, toward the back of the building. A neat modern hospital room, unoccupied. To the left, fewer doors, wider spacing. He opened the first one.
Only his recent exposure to high tech Worlds let him recognize the operating room. Central table, vid screens, wires, tubes, gadgets all over the walls and hanging on hinged arms from the ceiling, trays in sterile glass fronted bins. Shelves full of sealed electronic things . . . larger racks of mechanical arms, human in style, with bronze bars, wires, small motors. He eyed the arms, trying to guess the function of several things . . . a laser? Or maybe just a built-in light. The hand was complex . . . Can it possibly be as dexterous as a real hand . . . or is that why they stick to the left arm only? Is it stronger? Enough to be worth it?
He eyed the other end. Shoulder ball socket, with extensions that must go well into the back and chest, anchor to the collarbone and shoulder blade.
Did they take prisoners? But how do they enforce obedience? The brief glimpses he'd had of the cyborgs . . . plates here and there on shaven scalps, oculars . . . Yes, they were all here on these shelves. Why so many . . . what are they planning to do to captives?
Mirk looked at the other door, opposite of where he'd entered. Patients over there? Volunteers or prisoners? I think I'll finish checking this corridor first.
Hospital rooms empty. Operating rooms . . . two being prepped, but no patients until he reached the last room. Muffled voices warned him, and he barely cracked the door open.
Men—cyborgs—the closest all in white, right down to the gloves. The patient's head was being bandaged by one cyborg. One of the others—the one yelling at the uniformed soldiers at the far door had a bloody instrument in one hand. He threw both normal and cyborg hands up in exasperation and waved his crew out the far door.
Abandoning a patient in mid operation? Is he dead?
Mirk shuddered as he got a good view of what the surgeon had been working on.
What looked like a perfectly normal left arm . . . set off to the side. The raw wound of the shoulder . . . The last cyborg hustled over to hastily cover the area. He taped down gauze, then follow the others out.
Mirk eased in, cracked the other door. A bustle of action to the left. Injured being hauled past to the other operating rooms. An angled view of a sitting area, cyborgs leaning over cyborgs.
What do they call it? Triage? The ones who will probably die anyway, leave. The ones with injuries they will survive even if they have to wait a long time, leave. Concentrate on the people whom immediate medical care can save.
There were some moans and whimpers, from stretchers . . . not as much noise as he'd heard, years ago, when he was in the army. Bandits wounded in battle, hauled before a court to be tried and hung. No one wasted much medical care on them, either.
He glanced to his right . . . and there they were. The poor schmucks the Nexus had sent to negotiate, cowering behind bars. Mirk stepped back and looked around. White garments, no doubt sterilized. He pulled the top on over his shirt. The hat thing, to cover his hair.
He peeked again. No one obviously looking this way, or guarding the prisoners.
He stepped out confidently and walked up to the barred door. Electronic lock. Controlling a steel bolt. He thought of his physical shield, the shield on his hand sticking out beyond his fingers . . . right through the bolt.
"Out. Now. All of you. Hurry. Go through the door there. Around the operating room and out the far side."
They stared at him. Bloody frigging pacifists . . .
"The Nexus sent me to free you from this illegal restraint. Please exit now and follow my directions."
That actually got them moving.
The body on the table stopped them. It was moaning, twitching . . .
"Go! Keep moving!" Mirk glanced over his shoulder, nerves screaming. What the hell am I doing here? I'm no hero!
"But, but, that's Felix! We can't leave him here . . ."
Mirk jerked around and stared. That is him!
One woman took a deep breath. "You and you." Pointing at the two nearest men. "Help him up and see if he can stand. Felix? Open your eyes . . . eye. We need to go."
Mirk eased around them and out to the first corridor. There was a door at this end as well. He opened it. The street was deserted. Fighting fires, I hope.
He looked back at the people following him. "Turn right and start walking. When you get far enough out into the grasslands that you can't see this place, turn left. The city is not too far, and the Nexus ought to be able to send aircars for you."
He watched a semi-conscious Felix creep by and looked back down the hall.
Rooms full of cyber parts. Are they going to turn all captives into cyborgs? Can they really impose their controls on men? I can't leave this . . . But what can I do?
He stepped back into the operating room and looked around. "Must be something flammable in here." A bottle of clear liquid. He couldn't read the label, but a sniff . . . alcohol of some sort. He reached high and poured it over the shelves of cyber parts. Stepped back patting pockets. No matches? Oh! He refrained from slapping his forehead and gathered power. It was cold enough to be difficult, but he only needed a little fireball.
He stepped out of the room and tossed the glowing speck at the shelves.
Turned . . . and looked up at the cyborg reaching for him.
The cyborg hand clamped down on his right arm with crushing strength. He screamed in pain as his knees gave.
He grit his teeth and forced himself to stay on his feet. No weapons, not even a little knife . . . but I did slice . . .
He swung his left arm around. Shield, reaching beyond my fingers in a thin blade . . .
The cyborg pushed him out to arm's length.
The invisible blade took his head off.
The cyborg fell, taking Mirk with him, mechanical hand still clenched around his bicep.
Mirk rolled onto his back, reached across and very carefully sliced through the hand. Complex metal fingers clattered to the floor. Mirk pried himself off the floor, suddenly registering the alarms in the background.
They realized their prisoners have escaped.
Or maybe this guy dying set off an alarm.
He glanced down the hallway. The last of the Utopians paused at the door. Mirk could see the sunlit street beyond him. "Go! Hurry! I'll catch up later."
The man, thank gods, obeyed. The door swung closed.
Mirk gathered power into a fireball in his hand, and headed for the next operating room. I will not leave any cyborg parts available for them to use on us. Because these won't be the last prisoners they capture.
Behind him the first operating room's door exploded outward in a gust of fire. Now the other doors started opening and Mirk staggered through the smoke to the next and tossed his fireball into the middle of the sto
rage cabinets. The first shot missed him, the second hit as he frantically pulled up a shield. It knocked him flat and rolled him. He lay limp for a moment. Running feet passed him. He squinted through dark smoke and saw no one. Heaved himself up and headed for the third operating room.
By the time he got out the south door, he was fairly sure the Cyborgs would have trouble finding spare parts, let alone everything the needed to create new ones.
He took aim at the green at the end of the street and tried really hard to concentrate on his headache, because he really needed to be distracted from the state of his body.
Chapter Seven
Winter 1400 px/15-2-3517
St. Louis, Utopia
Frost looked around at the crowd in exasperation. "All the long distance skimmers are in use already, moving people whose homes have been damaged or captured by these cyborgs. The skimmers will return, and San Francisco, New York and Malibu are sending theirs here to assist."
A lot of faint grumbling from the crowd.
For a pack of sweeties who've never had a crisis in their lives, they're not doing badly.
"Now . . . it's highly unlikely, but just in case there are power outages, it might be a good idea to have some food on hand, something that will keep well, in case the kitchen fabs don't work. And water. You should go home and fab up a week's supply of your favorite drinks, and some food. Nexus will contact you when the skimmers from the other cities arrive, and the people closest to the incursion can get out of the danger zone until things settle down."
Until we beat the bastards. Damn it all, I like it here, despite the silly . . . How can we fight a war in Utopia? Well, not in a standup fight, that's for sure. It looks like Mirk closed the gate, for now. But if they come back . . . the city will be lost. Even the soldiers here can take an unarmed city . . . so do we fight openly, or subversively, hidden in a conquered population?
Why are they here? Is this just a conquest? For land? Living space? Or to steal wealth, refined metals and minerals? Food? Tech? If they've got gate tech, they don't need anything here. And the population is so small, the portable wealth is also small.
It must be land. So they'll occupy the city and take over all functions . . . They'll take over, or destroy the Nexus.
If they have the Nexus, we're toast. It sees everything.
Frost smiled out at the crowd, made shooing gestures. "Go on, go home. Stock up, pack for a trip."
She walked away, kept her voice low. "Nexus, are you located where you can be easily found? Or are you hidden?"
"My various components require regular servicing. Of course I can be found. Why would I want to hide?"
"To avoid destruction. I think I'd better take a look at you, and see if we can hide you, just in case. How long can you go without servicing? If you absolutely need to stay hidden?"
"I do not need to hide. Why would cyborgs not value a computer of my capacity?"
"Because they might not be able to control you. They might prefer to bring in their own equipment . . . or . . . " Frost frowned. Now I wish I'd paid more attention to these computer things! "Perhaps they could reprogram you and repurpose your manufacturing facilities to their needs."
"I am certain I could accommodate all their needs."
Frost perked up. "You can make weapons?"
"Absolutely not! There is no need for them to 'conquer' Utopia. We welcome them."
Frost closed her eyes for a long moment. It's enough to make me wish I was back on Comet Fall. In Verona. At the Temple of Love . . . were Where the Virgins, including, or perhaps especially, my mother, bear a strong resemblance to this idiot computer.
So . . . How would I explain this to my mother?
Frost pinched the bridge of her nose. "As you welcomed us."
"That is a new perspective on your family's lost data, and explains much that I did not understand about you four. You four also arrived though a dimensional portal."
"Yes. But while we have accepted this culture and tried to fit in and be useful, these cyborgs destroy and injure."
Apparently the Nexus had no answer to that.
"I think as a sensible precaution, we ought to conceal you, if that is at all possible. Where are you located?"
"I am a dispersed World-wide."
Old Gods help me!
"Where are your local computational facilities located?"
"Under the main plaza. They are accessed through the main administrative building. Level B2."
"I'm on the way."
***
Halberd stared at the smoking ruins in dismay. "I thought we were done with all that."
Nimbus nodded, rolling her bicycle a few inches forward and back. "This isn't our fault, is it? I mean, I've never seen anyone with . . . those robot parts before."
"Cyborgs. Mirk called them cyborgs."
"Humph. I'm going to go make sure Annie's all right."
Napalm frowned over at her. "Keep your eyes open. Did you hear Frost? Show all your buddies how to store up some food and water."
"What are you going to do?"
"I've got some Joy Juice. I'm going to ride down there and give it to the people they're pulling out of the buildings down there."
"Huh. Nexus will have a fit. See ya!" Napalm manhandled her bike around and peddled off.
Halberd jumped on hers and headed down to the rescue efforts.
They kept sending her away, but she managed to spread some painkilling spells around and got a jot of joy juice down a couple of bad burn victims before the ambulance returned for them.
"Halberd Arrowdaut, I commend your caring, but we will take care of hydration at the hospital." The sourceless voice of the Nexus was as calm as ever.
I guess a computer doesn't get adrenaline. But how about stress?
Halberd shrugged. "It's the Wine of the Gods. It's got tons of healing spells in it."
"Your persistent belief in magic is puzzling and alcohol is illegal. Please dispose of the remainder of your supply."
I'll bet the hospital is stuffed. I need to make more. So how can I get the Nexus to cough up some wine? Most of these civilized places won't let us kids have any.
And weapons. Maybe even some explosives. Frost has a couple of bags of fertilizer, doesn't she?
***
The young man guiding Frost was a bit puzzled, but led her downstairs to sub basement level two. Lots of exposed pipes, but most of the walls were covered in slick plastic panels in pastel colors. Rather faded, for the most part. Some hung with bins or white writing boards with colorfully scribbled notes. Down a broad corridor, single door to the side, double doors ahead. The side door was propped open.
Frost counted half a dozen people at three times as many utilitarian desks. Computers on every desk, the far wall lined with cabinets arrayed with lights in four colors, both steady and blinking . . . more computers, no doubt. Nexus?
Her guide waved her back from the room and led her to a pair of heavy doors and opened them. Light flooded out, and she stepped in.
Frost blinked and refocused her eyes in the very bright, very large room. Tall rectangles of metal. Rows and rows of computers.
It was a long way to the far wall. Nexus takes up most of the central plaza!
The low ceiling suddenly felt oppressive and much to low.
Frost turned and stepped back through the doors in the thick wall.
This must be the foundation of the whole building.
"We need to block off that room."
"What?" The young man looked suddenly alarmed. "Nexus just said to show you the room. I don't think there is a lock . . . "
"Not a lock. A barrier that will hide that there even is a room there." Frost looked at his innocent astonishment and sighed. "Look. I know this is . . . like an insurance policy. Something you buy—make, in this case—and hope you never need it."
"That accident on the south side . . . "
"May have been an act of aggression, by some people who are just arriving. Through a
dimensional gate, just like your ancestors colonized Utopia first."
"You mean a war. Like in the history books. Killing people for . . . I dunno. I never really thought about it."
"Yes. It's very disturbing. But if they damaged Nexus, what would we do? Water, electricity, sewage treatment, skimmers . . . I'm not even sure the kitchen fabs would work. So we're going to build a wall . . . " Frost frowned at the smaller computer room. "Nexus? If everything in here was destroyed, would you still be able to maintain city functions?"
The people at the desks all turned and gawped at her.
"Yes. But why allow any destruction, Frost Witch?"
"If the cyborgs don't find the city's control operations, they'll keep looking. And quickly realize there's a corner of this basement they can't access. But if they find this room, and can see the outer foundation wall . . . they may not look any further."
"Your point is . . . disturbing . . . but possibly accurate. Proceed."
Chapter Eight
Winter 1400 px/15-2-3517
St. Louis, Utopia
Mirk limped stiffly into his home, ready to collapse.
Halberd peeked out the kitchen. "Eep! Uncle Mirk! You look horrible."
He shuffled over and blinked at the table full of bowls and bottles. "What are you doing? What is all this?"
"Grape Juice, apple juice, tomato juice . . . all fake, of course. I'm trying to get the Wine of the Gods to spread without wine. Nexus won't let me have any, he says all forms of alcohol are illegal!"
"Apple juice! I sort of over did things." Mirk grabbed the bottle of golden liquid. Drank. It did taste pretty much like apples. And flooded his body with sugar. He took a deep breath of relief as the head ache faded.
I need a dose of that wine, right now. How to persuade Nexus to let us have alcohol is a whole different question.
"Nexus, I hope you means illegal as a beverage, not as an industrial chemical, because the . . . umm . . . Nexus we have some tech you are probably unfamiliar with . . . "