By the same token, there were just as many who channeled their desperation into supporting the one being who they thought could make the Black Rainbow go away…namely Wilhelm Ryan.
While Ryan’s zealots and those who opposed his rule had conflicting agendas, they would prove to have a very dangerous “something” in common: a rapturous passion to fight for the cause, to the point of unspeakable crimes against one another. Conflicts arose that often erupted into confrontations. When such confrontations threatened to bubble over into full-blown conflicts, sometimes Ryan’s men would intercede.
But when rioting over the Black Rainbow showed no sign of an end, Ryan grew bored with wasting the Red Army’s military resources on keeping the peace for a people he considered no more than insects. He appointed twelve overseers, designated them as “Eurocons,” and charged them with regulating the sectors and reporting to him. It was a means of cutting through the cumbersome array of governments and bureaucracies that had infested Heaven’s Fence. If Deftinwolf was the hand of Ryan, the Eurocons were the fingers, keeping their pulse on the people, acting on behalf of, and with, Ryan’s authority. In short, the Eurocons were able to help turn off kettles before the water within reached full boil.
After a time, Ryan no longer even bothered to glance at the skies.
Leonard Hohenberger, on the other hand, never lost sight of them, or what the object displayed above represented.
He estimated initially that it would take him at least six months to create his first protohuman, or IRO-bots as he called them. He beat the schedule, although not by much.
And he looked upon the face of his creation, which was a mirror image of his own.
And knowing that he would send his creation into the inferno of battle, he dubbed him “Inferno.”
And then he set about creating the remaining two thirds of his trinity.
The man he created from cell samples, the origins of which he knew.
The woman he fashioned from cell samples, the origins of one of which he did not know but, oddly, never wondered about. Had he been of a mind to question it, and had he received an answer to that question, he would have learned that it was cellular material that had come to him courtesy of the Prise.
But he did not ask, and therefore did not know. Which is either good or bad depending on whether one believes that ignorance is bliss or folly.
* * *
Coheed came on line eighteen weeks, three days, eighteen hours and eighteen minutes after the moment that he was conceived.
He knew absolutely nothing.
His mind was blank, a tabula rasa. He did not know his name, nor would he have been able to speak it even if he had known.
He did not know what he was or where he was.
He was a creature of pure sensation. Slowly he became aware of his whereabouts, but he would not have been able to express any understanding of them or explain them to anyone. All he knew was that he was floating (except he didn’t know any state other than floating) in an eight-foot tall cylinder (except he didn’t know shapes) someplace (except he didn’t know places) and that he was hungry (except he didn’t know how to eat or what to eat or even what eating was).
Naked and drifting helplessly in the all-enveloping nutrient bath, Coheed slowly opened his eyes. Nothing made any sense to him because he had no frame of reference. All he knew was that slowly that pang in his gut was beginning to subside. He had no way of knowing that it was because a gestational tube connected to his belly was pumping sustenance directly into him.
As his body’s needs were being attended to, Coheed twisted around in the tube and tried to see something of his whereabouts.
What he managed to discern was a female (except he didn’t know…)
Female. The opposite of male. The gender of humanity capable of producing ova, eggs, for fertilization and procreation…
The knowledge came flooding into his head, as if someone else was pouring information into it. Coheed was startled and his body went rigid momentarily. Her eyes were closed, her hair floating around her head like a black mass of seaweed. His eyes lingered over the curve of her hips, the upturn of her breasts.
* * *
“He’s reacting to Cambria.”
The observation had been made by Doctor Inaid. Prim and proper, she was one of two lab assistants who Hohenberger had taken on to aid him in some of the detail work in the creation of the IRO-bots. She and her partner, Doctor Stockmeyer, had been willing to come on board in total secrecy and without asking any questions. Logical questions, such as, “What are you planning to use these things for?”
“What do you mean, he’s reacting?” Hohenberger crossed the lab and leaned over her, studying the readings.
Before Inaid could respond, Inferno did so with his customary calm, slightly superior tone of voice. “He’s reacting, Doctor, to the fact that she’s a woman.”
Hohenberger found Inferno’s attitude to be rather annoying, and even moreso when Pearl observed that he sounded remarkably like a young Leonard Hohenberger. “I was never that arrogant,” Leonard had said archly, “and furthermore, I was never that young.” Pearl had laughed at the comment, which was gratifying to Hohenberger. Her laughter, so easily expressed in the past, had been the first thing to vanish when the grief of her son’s death had overwhelmed her. The fact that it had returned to her was an auger of good things as far as Hohenberger was concerned. It appeared that the creation of the IRO-bots had been therapeutic for her. It gave her a sense that they were accomplishing something, and served to extinguish—or at the very least dampen—the flames of rage burning within her.
“That’s impossible,” said Hohenberger to Inferno’s assessment of Coheed’s state of mind. “He’s designed to be emotionless. Asexual. Both of them are. Makes them more effective fighting machines.”
“Whatever the intent, Doctor,” said Inaid, “judging by the readings—the pulse, the hormone surge—he’s reacting in a way that doesn’t seem consistent with that design.”
“You should not assume anything,” Hohenberger said, checking the computer feed. The instrumentation was operating within normal parameters, indicating that bits of information were flowing into Coheed’s cerebral cortex as planned. “The data does not necessarily indicate any causal link between Coheed’s perception of Cambria and the readings you’re getting. It could well be coincidence. It probably is.”
Inaid shrugged, but Hohenberger could see in her face that she remained unconvinced.
Inferno stared thoughtfully at Hohenberger. “Doctor, if I may ask…”
“Of course, Inferno. You can ask anything you wish. That is the only way you will learn.”
“That, and having data pumped directly into my head, as you are in the process of doing with Coheed and will shortly be doing with Cambria.”
“Yes, well, there is that. Anyway, you wanted to ask me something?”
“You created me. You are in the process of creating two more beings such as myself.”
“Why am I not producing an army of you?”
“Yes.”
“Several reasons. First and foremost: resources. The amount of cellular matter that is required to produce one of you is…sizable.”
“Finances are a restriction in acquiring it?”
“Finances are a factor, but not the only one. I am endeavoring to make certain that Wilhelm Ryan does not learn of my activities. If I attempt to create the sizable army that the situation would seem to call for, I risk sabotaging my efforts before they reach fruition.”
“The more IRO-bots you produce, the more likely he is to notice.”
“That is exactly right.”
Slowly Inferno nodded. “That makes a great deal of sense.”
“Thank you, Inferno.”
Inferno’s gaze never left him. If anything, it seemed deeper and more penetrating than ever. “Of course, it may also come down to trust issues.”
“Trust issues? I’m not sure I’m following, Inferno.”
>
“It is rather simple, really. You cannot be certain how your other two creations and I will function once we are put out into the world. You will no longer have full control over us. We will be receiving new information, new cortical stimulation, that you have nothing to do with. There is always the concern that we might wind up allying ourselves with Ryan. If you produce only three of us and Ryan should turn us, that is hardly as problematic as producing three hundred of us, or three thousand, and unwittingly delivering a devastating army into Ryan’s hands.”
Hohenberger held his gaze for a long moment and then laughed. “Inferno,” he said finally, “believe me, when I have Coheed and Cambria fully functional, the three of you will be more than a match for any army. Three of you will be all that is required.”
“I hope that you are correct, Doctor.”
“I know I am.” He patted Inferno on the back. “Why don’t you monitor the information flow? After all, you’re far more attuned to machinery than I am. It should come naturally to you.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
Hohenberger watched him go, and kept the smile etched on his face for as long as he could.
Eventually, though, it faded.
It disturbed him how well Inferno was able to know Hohenberger’s mind. He should not have been surprised; of the three of them, Inferno was the closest to Hohenberger, a ninety-nine percent genetic match. He was starting to feel relieved that there would be other genetic components in the Coheed mix, and—obviously—even more in Cambria. There were only so many people he wanted to be of the exact same mind as he was.
“Doctor! It’s finished!”
Doctor Stockmeyer entered with his typically gangly stride, his skinny limbs swinging like pendulums on a clock as he moved. He was carrying something that was several feet long beneath a cloth cover. That was typical for him; Stockmeyer always had something of a flair for the dramatic. He shoved away some materials carelessly from a table and lay it down. Doctor Inaid cocked her head and stared at it with puppy-dog curiosity. Hohenberger just grinned. “Is the new toy ready?”
“It is indeed.”
“Care to demonstrate?”
“Happily.”
He walked away but quickly returned with an iron bar about five feet long. Then, pausing for effect, he yanked the cloth clear. There was what appeared to be a long, skeletal metal arm lying there. It gleamed in the morning light. “At the moment,” he said, as he carefully positioned the iron bar so that it was leaning against the skeleton, “I’ve rigged it to be triggered by sound—in this case, a clapping of the hands…”
“You mean like this?” said Inaid and brought her hands together.
“No, wait!” shouted Stockmeyer and then, realizing that it was too late, he threw himself backwards. He was barely in time as machete-like blades snapped out of the metal arm. One of them sliced through the iron bar and it clattered to the floor, neatly bisected. The pieces fell next to Stockmeyer, who was also on the floor, gasping for breath.
Inaid had a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide in shock.
“I see they work,” said Inferno mildly.
“Oh my God!” said Inaid, whose involvement had been purely in tracking the IRO-bots’ DNA and hadn’t been at all involved with the development of weaponry. She went to Stockmeyer and put out a hand, helping him up. “Stock, I’m so sorry! I…I don’t know what I was thinking…”
“No harm done,” Stockmeyer said, smoothing his lab coat and trying to recapture his air of professionalism. “As I was saying…at the moment, sound responsive. Once the structure is implanted in Coheed, they will be cybernetically entwined. He merely has to think it and the blades will be produced.”
“And the cannon?”
“Ah. Even better. Be right back.”
This time when he returned it was with something else covered, this time on a rolling table. With that same overly dramatic flourish, he yanked off the cloth to reveal a small but nonetheless formidable-looking cannon. “A transforming arm-cannon. The basic mechanisms were designed to create a digging machine. I customized it for our uses. It may look heavy,” and he easily lifted it off the table, “but it’s incredibly lightweight. Coheed will have no trouble wielding it, and it will have minimal recoil.”
“Why is he getting all the weaponry instead of Cambria?” said Inaid.
“Cambria isn’t going to have the bone structure or necessary body density,” said Hohenberger. He pointed toward her, floating in the tank. “But she’ll have other advantages.”
Stockmeyer, who was cradling the weapon, turned toward Cambria. “That’s true. She will possess low level psionic—”
At that moment, Cambria opened her eyes for the first time.
Information was still pouring into her cerebral cortex, but there was enough there to tell her that a gun was a weapon, and that a weapon being pointed at her was a threat to her well-being.
Her eyes widened and the liquid in the tank bubbled ever so slightly, which was just enough warning for Inferno, processing the information faster than any normal man possibly could have.
Just as Inferno knocked Stockmeyer flat, the air above him seemed to come alive with the force of a seismic shockwave. It ripped over Inferno’s head, kept going, and knocked over a cabinet that weighed just over three hundred pounds.
The cannon clattered to the ground. The moment it did, there was the sound of retracting squares of metal emerging from the base and all along the shaft of the cannon. Within moments the entire device had transformed into what looked like a solid metal arm. The fingers twitched spasmodically.
The perceived threat past, Cambria’s eyes fluttered shut.
“What the hell was that?” Doctor Inaid shouted.
“I…I’m not sure,” said Hohenberger.
Doctor Inaid turned to look at him, her face grave. “I was right, wasn’t I? You denied it, Doctor. Denied it to my face, but damn it, I was right. Those DNA matches…you said I was reading too much into it…”
“Into what?” said Stockmeyer as Inferno helped him to his feet.
“Cambria,” she said, “has DNA traces that have a .0001 match-up with those typical of a Mage.”
“That’s impossible,” said Stockmeyer. “Mages don’t procreate. They don’t provide DNA samples. How would you even know—?”
“There are certain markers to look for. I thought I spotted them and Doctor Hohenberger claimed I was getting concerned over nothing. My God, Leonard,” and she looked with worry toward Cambria, “we’ve kept ourselves purely on a need-to-know basis. But the things you’re mucking with—that you’ve pulled us into! The danger involved! They could wind up blowing this place off the face of the world before they’re even fully activated!”
“It will be fine,” he said with conviction. “I promise you—”
“And if you’re wrong? What are you going to do when this place is a crater and we’re all incinerated? What are you going to say? ‘Whoops’?”
“That won’t happen.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I can be,” he said firmly. “And you can, too.”
He was sure that would be enough.
Chapter 9
The Same Old Story
Coheed had her cold. He was positive of it. Cambria had been sprinting through the woods, making no attempt to hide her presence, and she had no idea that Coheed was perched in the brush ahead of her. When she drew near enough, he could easily leap out, tackle her and take her down. The training exercise would be over and he would be the unquestioned winner.
She would hate that, because she was as competitive as Coheed…perhaps even moreso. But all was fair in war and…
He paused, and it was just long enough for Cambria to dash past him unmolested.
Seeking to rebound from his foolish hesitation, Coheed leaped out behind her and bellowed, “A-ha!” in a manner that he was certain would freeze her in her tracks. She spun, saw him, backed up, and if he had leaped immediately he woul
d have had her but he didn’t want to attack her…but she was supposed to be the enemy!…But how could he pretend that when she—Enough! Just do it, you idiot!
He took two steps and left the ground, leaping at her feet first. What should have been a quick, seamless assault was instead slow and clumsy, and Cambria had more than enough time to get out of his way as he landed about a yard beyond where she’d just been standing.
And suddenly something snapped at his ankle. He didn’t even look down. The moment he heard it, he tried to leap clear of it without stopping to analyze it.
It didn’t make any difference. The tree to which the snare was attached snapped taut just as the loop drew tight and bit into his ankle. Coheed was yanked heavenward as an audible spraaaaang filled the air.
“Shit!” bellowed Coheed, which was a long ways from his triumphant cries of a mere moment earlier.
Cambria folded her arms and looked upward, grinning. Coheed brought his arm around, apparently ready to activate the cannon within. “Don’t forget, Coheed,” she said. “The Doctor warned us not to damage any of the environment. Have respect for our surroundings, remember? So if you were planning to shoot the tree, you might want to rethink the—huh?”
Coheed had lowered his right arm but was now bringing up his left. He let out a shriek of pain as glistening machetes snapped out up and down the length of the arm. “What the hell—!” she said in protest. “Where did those come from?”
“You like ‘em?” said Coheed. He was snickering in what could only be termed an extremely annoying fashion. “Always been there. The Doc told me about them this morning. Warned me the bastards would hurt like a son of a bitch, and he was right. Now let’s see…”
Displaying remarkable strength, and with absolutely no leverage at his disposal, Coheed pulled his torso upward and swung his left arm around. The blades sliced through the rope that Cambria had swiped from the Doctor’s supply shed (he had, after all, said “Anything goes”) with no problem. Coheed dropped to the ground and landed heavily on his side…
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