Other robots gathered in remote caves, in damp sub-basements, and at the bottom of lakes, where they electronically mated with one another over and over again until thousands of the tiny machines were linked into what amounted to massively parallel computers, and certain master-programs were brought on line—master—programs that were quite capable of receiving the bursts of low-frequency code and responding with clear-cut orders.
Orders that sent the worker-bots into a frenzy of activity as many were disassembled and reconfigured so they could more efficiently mine the required ore, build the refineries, and construct the factories necessary to manufacture finished products.
Days, weeks, and months passed while the robots worked, and because their labors were carried out beneath the planet’s surface, and because they made no attempt to establish contact with the heavily monitored Hudathan prisoners of war, their efforts went undetected.
Grain by grain, ounce by ounce, and pound by pound the necessary ores were mined, transported, refined, shaped, and manipulated until storerooms began to fill up with a variety of parts. Parts that any Hudathan trooper would have immediately recognized as those belonging to assault rifles, energy weapons, machine guns, grenade launchers, mortars, and shoulder-launched missiles.
And then, hidden in the bottom of a bombed-out building, and supervised by a computer located in the ruins under Black Lake, a team of specially programmed robots went to work. Unlike the assemblies created by their peers, this particular machine would be the only one of its kind. Following designs devised by War Scientist Rimar Noda-Sa, and careful to adhere to the usual standards of quality, the micromachines fashioned what looked like a Hudathan trooper.
Great care was taken to ensure that the resulting robot appeared to be middle aged and undernourished. When the last section of black plasti-flesh had been applied and all systems had been tested, the robot was given a limp to simulate an old war wound, what appeared to be a well-worn battle harness, and sandals similar to those the prisoners made for themselves.
And so it was that in the Stygian blackness of a long-forgotten subbasement a brand-new creation was born, tested, and charged with one of the most important tasks of the upcoming war: to find War Commander Poseen-Ka, or if he was dead, the current commanding officer, and prepare him for a revolt and mass escape. Slowly but surely, with its highly sophisticated sensors probing the darkness ahead, the messenger began its journey.
Specialist Third Class Jessica Clemmons frowned, ran a hand through her kinky black hair, and stabbed a key. The computer screen winked, lines of numbers rolled by, and the same old message popped up: “Probability of natural causation .00001.” It was the third time she had run the data and received the same answer.
Clemmons felt vindication mixed with apprehension. The Hudathans were up to something, there was no doubt about that, but would Lieutenant Rawley believe her? He’d been on her ass about one thing or another ever since he’d boarded the Old Lady two weeks before. “Clemmons, press that uniform. Clemmons, where’s that report? Clemmons, I see gear adrift.”
The loot was a major pain in the butt. And even worse than that, a nontechnical pain in the butt, who was rotating through the Electronic Warfare (EW) section on his way to bigger and better things, and wouldn’t recognize a chip if he found one floating in his coffee. All of which made it damned hard to explain technical matters to the idiot. Still, her duty was clear, so Clemmons ordered a printout of her findings, checked her uniform for ketchup stains, and wished she was one of the smoothies who could talk birds down from the trees. They seemed to get along with Rawley just fine and received favors as a result.
Very few people said hello or acknowledged the serious young technician as she wound her way out of the EW Ops room and entered one of the Old Lady’s busiest corridors. The loot’s closet-sized office was a hundred yards down-ship and shoulder-to-shoulder with other similar cubicles occupied by his peers. Clemmons walked eyes down, careful to salute each officer’s highly shined shoes, but otherwise disconnected from those around her.
Unlike most of the other officers aboard ship, Lieutenant Rawley routinely kept his hatch closed, a habit that forced subordinates and superiors alike to knock and announce themselves. Clemmons stopped in front of the door marked Electronic Warfare Officer, checked her uniform one last time, and rapped on the airtight door three times. “Specialist Third Class Clemmons! Requesting permission to enter!”
Rawley’s voice was nearly inaudible from behind the thick metal. “Enter.”
Clemmons touched the hand plate and the hatch slid out of the way. A single step carried her to the center of the office. It was furnished with a fold-down desk-computer unit and two chairs. Rawley occupied one of the chairs and had no intention of offering the other to her. He was handsome in a pretty sort of way, with a straight nose, large dark eyes, and pouty lips. He arched a perfectly shaped brow. The move was carefully rehearsed and would come in handy throughout what Rawley assumed would be a long and distinguished career. “Yes?”
Clemmons felt beads of sweat pop out on her forehead. She fought to suppress the stammer that had plagued her since childhood. “I-I-I have an anomaly to report.”
Rawley frowned impatiently. “So report it. That’s what the daily summaries are for.”
Which you don’t bother to read, and wouldn’t understand if you did, Clemmons thought to herself. “Yes, sir. B-b-but this could be urgent, sir—and I thought you should see it.”
Rawley liked the idea of people bringing urgent and possibly important matters to his attention. He treated Clemmons to a number-three smile, which was professional, but contained a hint of sexuality. A surefire strategy when applied to heterosexual females. “All right . . . letʼs see what you’ve got.”
Clemmons gave him the printout, he pretended to scan it, and uttered some “uh-huhs” before handing it back. “So, Specialist Clemmons, I have my opinion, but I’d like to hear yours. What does this data mean?”
Clemmons had expected the question and was ready for it. “W-w-well, sir, we have passive pickups scattered all over the planet’s surface, just to make sure the prisoners don’t come up with some sort of homegrown radios. Y-y-you know, the kind of short-range stuff we might not receive in orbit.”
Rawley didnʼt know about the passive pickups but filed the tidbit for future reference. “Of course . . . go on.”
Encouraged by the fact that the interview was going better than expected, the stutter disappeared and the words flowed. “Well, we sort through all sorts of static and junk, but none of it has ever amounted to anything until now. About two days ago I started to notice some low-frequency stuff—nothing sustained, mind you—but short bursts of a second or two.”
Clemmons waited for signs of interest that never came. Rawley was getting bored and allowed the tiniest of frowns to wrinkle the skin between his eyes. “Yes . . . and?”
And pay attention, the inner Clemmons screamed, it’s obvious! The bastards are up to something! The technician suppressed the insubordinate thoughts and chose her words with care. “I-I-I ran our records for the last three standard months. The transmissions started exactly fifty-three days ago, were transient for a while, then settled into semipermanent locations. One of which is centered on a body of water called ‘Black Lake.’ I think the geeks are up to something . . . and I recommend that the old lady send some grunts down for a look.”
Rawley spent a full five seconds visualizing himself taking Clemmons’s concerns up the chain of command, tried to think of how such an activity might benefit his career, and came up empty. “Thank you for your concern, Clemmons. Naval tradition aside, I doubt that General Norwood appreciates being referred to as ‘the old lady.’ Leave the printout on my desk. Iʼll push it up the ladder and see what the number three thinks. Dismissed.”
Clemmons saluted, did a sloppy about-face, and stepped into the corridor. The hatch closed behind her. She took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and marched down the hall. Th
e lieutenant had taken her seriously! He had promised to kick the matter upstairs! The number three would value her report and do something about it. Clemmons started to whistle, caught herself, and settled for an ear-to-ear grin. Life wasn’t so bad after all.
Rawley checked to make sure the hatch was closed and fed the printout into the disposal slot next to his desk. It made a sucking sound and disappeared. Just like Clemmons, if he could find a department head stupid enough to take her.
The door to the Operations and Command Center swished open. General Natalie Norwood strode into the room and her staff stood. There was her executive officer, and the Old Lady’s skipper, Naval Captain Ernest “Ernie” Big Bear, the commander of the 16th Battalion, 3rd Marines, Colonel Maria Chow, and the officer in charge of the ship’s aerospace fighters, Wing Commander Mark Sabo. They didn’t even begin to fill the large compartment. Worber’s World hung beyond the view port like a picture in a frame. Norwood smiled and headed for the refreshment table located against the inner bulkhead. “At ease . . . coffee anyone?”
There was general assent as Norwood had known there would be. This particular team had been together for some time now. Of course none had been on-station as long as she had nor would the high command have allowed them to. That privilege, if privilege it was, had been reserved for the single woman who had won almost every medal of valor the empire and Confederacy had to offer. And that, just like her habit of pouring and serving coffee to her staff, was part of the legend. A legend she was barely aware of, since it meant very little to her. The fact was that there was only one thing that she really cared about, and that was punishing the Hudathans for what they’d done, and making damned sure they never did it again. Which was what the meeting was all about.
Once everyone had their coffee, and had exchanged the usual bits of gossip, Norwood opened the meeting. “Okay . . . you know the drill. With the quarterly snoop and poop inspection less than two weeks away I want to make sure we have our act together.”
The other officers smiled and nodded agreeably but exchanged sideways looks. The geeks had been dirtside for more than twenty years now and that equated to something like eighty quarterly inspections. Every one of them had turned up minor violations of the rules but nothing major. No homemade rocket ships, no jury-rigged energy weapons, and no rebellions. But that didn’t mean diddly to Norwood, who was just as fanatical as the day she had assumed command, and if the scuttlebutt could be believed, a lot more tiresome. Especially when she talked about how dangerous the aliens were, a perception that not only failed to match the facts, but served to reinforce rumors that she was more than a little wacko, and ready for a psychological tune-up.
But the boss is the boss is the boss, especially in the military, and none of them dared voice their concerns. So Big Bear reported on the ship’s readiness to provide orbital fire support, Sabo outlined plans to put the grunts on the ground, and Chow made the usual extravagant claims about her marines. The meeting lasted two hours and three out of the four participants thought it was a complete waste of time.
It had taken the messenger the better part of a week to travel the twenty-five miles that separated its birthplace from the coordinates the roach-shaped scouts had given him. Like the insects they modeled, the microbots had full access to the areas where the Hudathan prisoners spent most of their time, and were systematically ignored by the human detection devices.
Based on data they had provided to the widely dispersed brains, and through them to him, the messenger knew there were a total of fifty-three prisoner camps each housing between two and three thousand troops. But one of those camps, the one the lead computers had designated as “alpha,” was twice the size of the others, and geographically central to their locations. All of which suggested a rough-and-ready headquarters or something very similar.
Working his way up through the skeletal remains of what had been an evergreen forest, the robot hit the ground just short of the skyline and wriggled his way forward. Alpha base was cradled in a small valley and had been constructed on the ruins of a city once known as Waterville. The messenger saw that while paths had been cleared through the rubble and crude repairs had been made to some of the less damaged buildings, the location was far from what its Hudathan creators would consider habitable.
The robot switched to infrared. He saw light green squares of carefully conserved light; darker, more intense areas where fires warmed concrete; and the thin, almost spectral images left by troopers who shambled through the ruins.
Having detected no danger, the messenger stood and picked its way down the slope towards the graveyard below. The crosses and monuments had no meaning beyond their status as obstacles through which the machine was forced to pass. The markers were staggered, as if to rise up and block the invaders’ way, but stood immobile while the robot passed among them.
The messenger walked under a stone arch and out into a partially cleared street. Having no power to work with, and no beasts of burden at their disposal, the troopers had removed just enough rubble so that two carts could pass each other. A pair of tired-looking Hudathans plodded by, their eyes glued to the ground, a wagon loaded with stones creaking along behind.
The robot fell in behind them and imitated the way they walked. A box-shaped heat source swooped down and a cacaphony of internal alarms went off within the messenger’s central processing unit. A variety of alternatives presented themselves and were compared with the machine’s prime directives. “Stealth is all-important.” “Do nothing to attract attention.” “Rely on your camouflage.”
The robot ignored the vid cam and shuffled forward. The spy-eye paced him for a while, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and drifted into the murk.
Lightning flashed and left a jagged afterimage across the messenger’s infrared vision. Thunder rumbled in the distance, acid rain fell, and the mud made squishy noises beneath his feet. Most of the buildings the robot passed were little more than empty shells, picked clean of anything useful years before, and cold as death. The machine ignored them and continued down the street until one particular structure caught and held his attention. It radiated more heat than any other building in the area and was largely intact. Guards had been posted to either side of the main entranceway. All good signs.
The messenger angled off into the shadows, stopped, and sent a millisecond worth of code. Three scout roaches were within a hundred feet of his location and hurried to his side. The first machine scrambled up his leg and plugged itself into a tiny neck socket. The larger robot sought confirmation of the building’s function, received it, and removed the microbot from his shoulder. Carefully, almost reverently, he placed it on the ground. It made a clicking sound as it dived down a drain.
Confident that it had the correct location, the messenger stepped out onto the street, approached the guards, and announced who he was. “Nolar Isam-Ka to see War Commander Poseen-Ka.”
The sentry was bored. He scanned the stranger for weapons, saw none, and gave the standard response. “The war commander is busy. Do you have an appointment?”
The robot took note of what he had learned. This was the correct location and Poseen-Ka was alive. “No,” it replied, “but he’ll see me.”
The sentry looked doubtful, but ducked inside and returned a short time later. Four troopers accompanied him. They pretended to step out onto the street, turned, and grabbed the messenger from behind. In spite of the fact that the machine could have killed every single one of them, it made no attempt to do so. Its hands were bound and the machine was pushed, shoved, and prodded through the door.
The building’s interior was lit with makeshift lamps, heat radiated from jury-rigged sheet-metal stoves, and rows of cavelike cubicles lined the main corridors. The offices had been established for use by Poseen-Kaʼs staff, not that they had much to do beyond documenting the latest deaths and fantasizing about some sort of rescue. They watched the robot with dull, uninterested eyes.
War Commander Poseen-Ka was looking
out his window at the graveyard when the messenger entered the room. The sound caused him to turn and instinctively place his back against the wall. He looked at the prisoner, felt ice water shoot through his veins, and looked again. He opened his mouth to speak, remembered the vid cam that oozed along the ceiling, and thought better of it. Something strange was taking place and he would have to be extremely careful. The officer kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “Tell me your name.”
The messenger was matter-of-fact. “Nolar Isam-Ka.”
Poseen-Ka took another look. He had assumed the guard was joking or had mispronounced the name, but there was no doubt about it. Except for the fact that the real Isam-Ka would look twenty years older than this one did, and normally wore an eye patch, the imposter was a perfect likeness. He tried a test. “Yes, of course. The last time I saw you was aboard the Light of Hudatha.”
The messenger didn’t hesitate. “I am sorry, but you are mistaken. The Light of Hudatha, along with the rest of Spear Three, was destroyed in battle. The last time you saw me was in the company of Grand Marshal Pem-Da and War Commander Dal-Ba. The occasion was a court of inquiry. You were exonerated.”
Poseen-Ka felt a quickly growing sense of excitement. He remembered the day well. How could he forget? Grand Marshal Pem-Da had tried to use the loss of Spear Three as an excuse to replace him, but thanks in large part to support from Isam-Ka, Poseen-Ka had emerged victorious. He blinked. “I stand corrected. Guards, release the prisoner. You may leave.”
Surprised, but too well trained to show it, the guards removed the rope from the robot’s wrists and left the room. They were huge and had to back out one at a time. The door closed behind them. Poseen-Ka eyed the vid cam and it eyed him back. He gestured towards the outer door. “Come, old friend. Let’s go for a walk.”
Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle Page 9
