by Ian Whates
But to engage him I must find him, and if he chooses to turn away and disappear into the Badlands, locating him may well prove impossible for my crippled sensors. Indeed, if he should succeed in breaking contact with me, seek out some deeply hidden crevice or cavern, and shut down all but his Survival Centre, he might well succeed in hiding even from Fleet sensors. Even now, despite his treason and the wounds he has inflicted upon me, a small, traitorous part of me wishes he would do just that. I remember too many shared battles, too many times in which we fought side by side in the heart of shrieking violence, and that traitor memory wishes he would simply go. Simply vanish and sleep away his reserve power in dreamless hibernation.
But I cannot let him do that. He must not escape the consequences of his actions, and I must not allow him to. His treason is too great, and our Human commanders and partners must know that we of the Line share their horror at his actions.
I sit motionless for a full 5.25 minutes, recomputing options in light of my new limitations. I cannot climb the valley wall after LNC, nor can I rely upon my damaged sensors to find him if he seeks to evade me. Should he simply run from me, he will escape, yet he has been wedded to the same base course from the moment he abandoned Morville. I still do not understand why, but he appears absolutely determined to reach the Avalon Mountains, and even with my track damage, I remain faster than he is.
There is only one possibility. I will proceed at maximum speed to the end of this valley. According to my maps, I should reach its northern end at least 42.35 minutes before he can attain the cover of the mountains, and I will be between him and his refuge. I will be able to move towards him, using my remaining forward sensors to search for and find him, and if his Hellbore is indeed permanently disabled, I will destroy him with ease. My plan is not without risks, for my damaged sensors can no longer sweep the tops of the valley walls effectively. If his Hellbore can be restored to operation, he will be able to choose his firing position with impunity, and I will be helpless before his attack. But risk or no, it is my only option and, if I move rapidly enough, I may well outrun him and get beyond engagement range before he can make repairs.
LNC watched helplessly as the Enemy re-emerged from hiding and sped up the narrow valley. He understood the Enemy’s logic, and the loss of his Hellbore left him unable to defeat it. If he continued towards the Avalons, he would be destroyed, yet he had no choice, and he turned away from the valley, naked road wheels screaming in protest as be battered his way across the lava fields.
I have reached the end of the valley, and I emerge into the foothills of the Avalon Range and alter course to the west. I climb the nearest hill, exposing only my turret and forward sensor arrays over its crest, and begin the most careful sweep of which I remain capable.
LNC’s passive sensors detected the whispering lash of radar and he knew he’d lost the race. The Enemy was ahead of him, waiting, and he ground to a halt. His computer core had suffered additional shock damage when the disintegrating ridge crest smashed into him, and his thoughts were slow. It took almost thirteen seconds to realize what he must do. The only thing he could do now.
“Tommy?”
Thomas Mallory looked up from where he crouched on the floor of the packed compartment. His eight-year-old sister had sobbed herself out of tears at last, and she huddled against his side in the protective circle of his arm. But Thomas Mallory had learned too much about the limits of protectiveness. At fifteen, he was the oldest person in the compartment, and he knew what many of the others had not yet realized – that they would never see their parents again, for the fifty-one of them were the sole survivors of Morville.
“Tommy?” the slurred voice said once more, and Thomas cleared his throat.
“Yes?” He heard the quaver in his own voice, but he made himself speak loudly. Despite the air filtration systems, the compartment stank of ozone, explosives and burning organic compounds. He’d felt the terrible concussions of combat and knew the vehicle in whose protective belly he sat was savagely wounded, and he was no longer certain how efficient its audio pickups might be.
“I have failed in my mission, Tommy,” the voice said. “The Enemy has cut us off from our objective.”
“What enemy?” Thomas demanded. “Who are they, Lance? Why are they doing this?”
“They are doing it because they are the Enemy,” the voice replied.
“But there must be a reason!” Thomas cried with all the anguish of a fifteen-year-old heart.
“They are the Enemy,” the voice repeated in that eerie, slurred tone. “It is the Enemy’s function to destroy … to destroy … to dest—” The voice chopped off, and Thomas swallowed. Lance’s responses were becoming increasingly less lucid, wandering into repetitive loops that sometimes faded into silence and other times, as now, cut off abruptly, and Thomas Mallory had learned about mortality. Even Bolos could perish, and somehow he knew Lance was dying by centimetres even as he struggled to complete his mission.
“They are the Enemy,” Lance resumed, and the electronic voice was higher and tauter. “There is always the Enemy. The Enemy must be defeated. The Enemy must be destroyed. The Enemy—” Again the voice died with the sharpness of an axe blow, and Thomas bit his lip and hugged his sister tight. Endless seconds of silence oozed past, broken only by the whimpers and weeping of the younger children, until Thomas could stand it no longer.
“Lance?” he said hoarsely.
“I am here, Tommy.” The voice was stronger this time, and calmer.
“W-what do we do?” Thomas asked.
“There is only one option.” A cargo compartment hissed open to reveal a backpack military com unit and an all-terrain survival kit. Thomas had never used a military com, but he knew it was preset to the Dinochrome Brigade’s frequencies. “Please take the kit and com unit,” the voice said.
“All right.” Thomas eased his arm from around his sister and lifted the backpack from the compartment. It was much lighter than he’d expected, and he slipped his arms though the straps and settled it on his back, then tugged the survival kit out as well.
“Thank you,” the slurred voice said. “Now, here is what you must do, Tommy …”
My questing sensors detect him at last. He is moving slowly, coming in along yet another valley. This one is shorter and shallower, barely deep enough to hide him from my fire, and I trace its course along my maps. He must emerge from it approximately 12.98 kilometres to the southwest of my present position, and I grind into motion once more. I will enter the valley from the north and sweep along it until we meet, and then I will kill him.
Thomas Mallory crouched on the hilltop. It hadn’t been hard to make the younger kids hide – not after the horrors they’d seen in Morville. But Thomas couldn’t join them. He had to be here, where he could see the end, for someone had to see it. Someone had to be there, to know how fifty-one children had been saved from death … and to witness the price their dying saviour had paid for them.
Distance blurred details, hiding Lance’s dreadful damages as he ground steadily up the valley, but Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he saw the cloud of dust coming to meet him. Tears burned like ice on his cheeks in the sub-zero wind, and he scrubbed at them angrily. Lance deserved those tears, but Thomas couldn’t let the other kids see them. There was little enough chance that they could survive a single Camlan winter night, even in the mountains, where they would at least have water, fuel, and the means to build some sort of shelter. But it was the only chance Lance had been able to give them, and Thomas would not show weakness before the children he was now responsible for driving and goading into surviving until someone came to rescue them. Would not betray the trust Lance had bestowed upon him.
The oncoming dust grew thicker, and he raised the electronic binoculars, gazing through them for his first sight of the enemy. He adjusted their focus as an iodine-coloured turret moved beyond a saddle of hills. Lance couldn’t see it from his lower vantage point, but Thomas could, and his face went suddenly p
aper-white. He stared for one moment, then grabbed for the com unit’s microphone.
“No, Lance! Don’t – don’t! It’s not the enemy – it’s another Bolo!”
The Human voice cracks with strain as it burns suddenly over the command channel, and confusion whips through me. The transmitter is close – very close – and that is not possible. Nor do I recognize the voice, and that also is impossible. I start to reply, but before I can, another voice comes over the same channel.
“Cease transmission,” it says. “Do not reveal your location.”
This time I know the voice, yet I have never heard it speak so. It has lost its crispness, its sureness. It is the voice of one on the brink of madness, a voice crushed and harrowed by pain and despair and a purpose that goes beyond obsession.
“Lance,” the Human voice – a young, male Human voice – sobs. “Please, Lance! It’s another Bolo! It really is!”
“It is the Enemy,” the voice I once knew replies, and it is higher and shriller. “It is the Enemy. There is only the Enemy. I am Unit Zero-One-Zero-Three-LNC of the Line. It is my function to destroy the Enemy. The Enemy. The Enemy. The Enemy. The Enemy.”
I hear the broken cadence of that voice, and suddenly I understand. I understand everything, and horror fills me. I lock my tracks, slithering to a halt, fighting to avoid what I know must happen. Yet understanding has come too late, and even as I brake, LNC rounds the flank of a hill in a scream of tortured, overstrained tracks and a billowing cloud of dust.
For the first time, I see his hideously mauled starboard side and the gaping wound driven deep, deep into his hull. I can actually see his breached Personality Centre in its depths, see the penetration where Enemy fire ripped brutally into the circuitry of his psychotronic brain, and I understand it all. I hear the madness in his electronic voice, and the determination and courage which have kept that broken, dying wreck in motion, and the child’s voice on the com is the final element. I know his mission, now, the reason he has fought so doggedly, so desperately to cross the Badlands to the life-sustaining shelter of the mountains.
Yet my knowledge changes nothing, for there is no way to avoid him. He staggers and lurches on his crippled tracks, but he is moving at almost eight kilometres per hour. He has no Hellbore, no missiles, and his remaining infinite repeaters cannot harm me, yet he retains one final weapon: himself.
He thunders towards me, his com voice silent no more, screaming the single word “Enemy! Enemy! Enemy!” again and again. He hurls himself upon me in a suicide attack, charging to his death as the only way he can protect the children he has carried out of hell from the friend he can no longer recognize, the “Enemy” who has hunted him over four hundred kilometres of frozen, waterless stone and dust. It is all he has left, the only thing he can do … and if he carries through with his ramming attack, we both will die and exposure will kill the children before anyone can rescue them.
I have no choice. He has left me none, and in that instant I wish I were Human. That I, too, could shed the tears which fog the young voice crying out to its protector to turn aside and save himself.
But I cannot weep. There is only one thing I can do.
“Good bye, Lance,” I send softly over the battalion command net. “Forgive me.”
And I fire.
THE GAME OF ART AND DRAGON
Cordwainer Smith
Paul Myron Anthony Linebarger (1913–66) adopted his pseudonym to imply that he was a ‘skilled craftsman’, although his godfather Sun Yat-sen, the founder of Chinese nationalism, suggested the alternative name Lin Bai-lo, which means ‘Forest of Incandescent Bliss’. This perhaps better expresses the rich density and artistry of Cordwainer Smith’s SF, as well as its exoticism. A noted scholar of East Asia and familiar with six languages, he was also a founding specialist in psychological warfare, and an adviser to JFK.
1. The Table
PINLIGHTING IS A hell of a way to earn a living. Underhill was furious as he closed the door behind himself. It didn’t make much sense to wear a uniform and look like a soldier if people didn’t appreciate what you did.
He sat down in his chair, laid his head back in the headrest, and pulled the helmet down over his forehead.
As he waited for the pin-set to warm up, he remembered the girl in the outer corridor. She had looked at it, then looked at him scornfully.
“Meow.” That was all she had said. Yet it had cut him like a knife.
What did she think he was – a fool, a loafer, a uniformed nonentity? Didn’t she know that for every half-hour of pinlighting, he got a minimum of two months’ recuperation in the hospital?
By now the set was warm. He felt the squares of space around him, sensed himself at the middle of an immense grid, a cubic grid, full of nothing. Out in that nothingness, he could sense the hollow aching horror of space itself and could feel the terrible anxiety that his mind encountered whenever it met the faintest trace of inert dust.
As he relaxed, the comforting solidity of the sun, the clockwork of the familiar planets and the moon rang in on him. Our own solar system was as charming and as simple as an ancient cuckoo clock filled with familiar ticking and with reassuring noises. The odd little moons of Mars swung around their planet like frantic mice, yet their regularity was itself an assurance that all was well. Far above the plane of the ecliptic, he could feel half a ton of dust more or less drifting outside the lanes of human travel.
Here there was nothing to fight, nothing to challenge the mind, to tear the living soul out of a body with its roots dripping in effluvium as tangible as blood.
Nothing ever moved in on the solar system. He could wear the pin-set forever and be nothing more than a sort of telepathic astronomer, a man who could feel the hot, warm protection of the sun throbbing and burning against his living mind.
Woodley came in.
“Same old ticking world,” said Underhill. “Nothing to report. No wonder they didn’t develop the pin-set until they began to planoform. Down here with the hot sun around us, it feels so good and so quiet. You can feel everything spinning and turning. It’s nice and sharp and compact. It’s sort of like sitting around home.”
Woodley grunted. He was not much given to flights of fantasy.
Undeterred, Underhill went on, “It must have been pretty good to have been an ancient man. I wonder why they burned up their world with war. They didn’t have to planoform. They didn’t have to go out to earn their livings among the stars. They didn’t have to dodge the rats or play the game. They couldn’t have invented pin-lighting because they didn’t have any need of it, did they, Woodley?”
Woodley grunted, “Uh-huh.” Woodley was twenty-six years old and due to retire in one more year. He already had a farm picked out. He had gotten through ten years of hard work pinlighting with the best of them. He had kept his sanity by not thinking very much about his job, meeting the strains of the task whenever he had to meet them and thinking nothing more about his duties until the next emergency arose.
Woodley never made a point of getting popular among the partners. None of the partners liked him very much. Some of them even resented him. He was suspected of thinking ugly thoughts of the partners on occasion, but since none of the partners ever thought a complaint in articulate form, the other pinlighters and the chiefs of the Instrumentality left him alone.
Underhill was still full of the wonders of their job. Happily he babbled on, “What does happen to us when we planoform? Do you think it’s sort of like dying? Did you ever see anybody who had his soul pulled out?”
“Pulling souls is just a way of talking about it,” said Woodley. “After all these years, nobody knows whether we have souls or not.”
“But I saw one once. I saw what Dogwood looked like when he came apart. There was something funny. It looked wet and sort of sticky as if it were bleeding and it went out of him – and you know what they did to Dogwood? They took him away, up in that part of the hospital where you and I never go – way up at the top part w
here the others are, where the others always have to go if they are alive after the rats of the up-and-out have gotten them.”
Woodley sat down and lit an ancient pipe. He was burning something called tobacco in it. It was a dirty sort of habit, but it made him look very dashing and adventurous.
“Look here, youngster. You don’t have to worry about that stuff. Pinlighting is getting better all the time. The partners are getting better. I’ve seen them pinlight two rats forty-six million miles apart in one and a half milliseconds. As long as people had to try to work the pin-sets themselves, there was always the chance that with a minimum of four-hundred milliseconds for the human mind to set a pinlight, we wouldn’t light the rats up fast enough to protect our planoforming ships. The partners have changed all that. Once they get going, they’re faster than rats. And they always will be. I know it’s not easy, letting a partner share your mind—”
“It’s not easy for them, either,” said Underhill.
“Don’t worry about them. They’re not human. Let them take care of themselves. I’ve seen more pinlighters go crazy from monkeying around with partners than I have ever seen caught by the rats. How many of them do you actually know of that got grabbed by rats?”
Underhill looked down at his fingers, which shone green and purple in the vivid light thrown by the tuned-in pin-set, and counted ships. The thumb for the Andromeda, lost with crew and passengers, the index finger and the middle finger for Release Ships 43 and 56, found with their pin-sets burned out and every man, woman, and child on board dead or insane. The ring finger, the little finger, and the thumb of the other hand were the first three battleships to be lost to the rats – lost as people realized that were was something out there underneath space itself which was alive, capricious, and malevolent.