Great Sky River

by Gregory Benford

  He found a small stream nearby that gushed out of a horn-shaped rock formation. The water numbed him immediately and then brought pain seeping into his feet. Still he stayed in for long, agonizing minutes, savoring the sparkling lap of more water than he had seen since the Trough.

  After, he had to walk awhile to bring the circulation back into his legs and stop the quiet ache in them. That was why he was standing some distance from the fire tent and alone among the Bishops could see the Duster coming, though he was nearly naked, without equipment, and could do nothing about it.

  The Duster was on top of them before Killeen, running among the bushes toward his weaponry, could do more than shout. Bishops came spilling from the ruby-walled fire tents. The Duster came in low from the north and was spewing a dark cloud behind it even as it breasted the horizon. It whirred and droned, approaching with stolid momentum. Killeen could not tell if it had made a particular target of them, for it did not appear to slow as it swept over the Rook and Bishop camps. The black fog billowed behind it and then fell with a graceful buoyancy, as though in no particular hurry to reach the ground and begin its work. Killeen saw the darkness advancing and swept up as much of his gear as he could. He took several steps, realized he would do better with his boots on, and so made himself methodically sit down and put on the boots despite the pandemonium which ricocheted through his sensorium from the outfanning Family.

  When he stood up Toby was running toward him and the cloud was descending over the Family like a huge black hand. It came down in the Eater’s blue-shot twilight, catching the last incoming horizontal yellow shafts of radiance from Denix, which cut across the descending swarm. For swarm it was now, not the simple layers of corrosive chemicals Killeen had experienced before and which had killed his grandmother. This was not alkaline dust but rather nuggets that seemed to writhe and murmur in the air. Toby reached Killeen and for once the father was glad to see that the ageold and sometimes even endearing sloppy habits of a boy were of use, for Toby’s boots were still on and he had only half-shucked his marching gear.

  Toby scooped up his mainbelt and shrugged on his harness, which carried some weaponry. Against chemicals this would have been utter useless deadweight, for the thing to do then was to run fleet and upwind. But they both agreed without wasting breath to speak that this settling threat was fresh. The things that came coasting from the sky hit the ground with rebounding skill. They were no bigger than three hands across. One rushed at Toby’s leg, extruding blunt dowels. It was about to attack his boot when Toby blew it to pieces. But by then three more had landed around them and one more came down on Killeen’s back.

  It knocked him flat. A gust of horror shot through Killeen as he grabbed at the thing. He could feel the snub-ended arms press against his neck. A smell like sharp, corroded tin filled his nostrils. His hand slipped on slick cowling and something whirred at his neck. It brought a steel-cold pinprick that spread into a roaring, hot pain. He got a grip on the thing and wrenched hard and down. It held on. He found a hold with his other hand and heaved at it. Still the weight pressed down on him. He tried to roll over but the machine somehow thrust against his roll and held on.

  He had not put on his gloves, and when his hand snatched at the two blunt prods against his neck his fingers touched something whitehot, unbearable. Tiny iceknives scrabbled at his face. Going by feel, Killeen tried to imagine what the thing was shaped like. He found the underlip of it and yanked but it did not budge. He twisted and got both hands under the lip and was about to jerk at it when suddenly the weight was gone. He rolled over. Toby had pried the thing off using a shovel. As Killeen got up, Toby smashed the shovel into the squat, square thing. It buzzed and went dead.

  Then they ran. The small machines were falling like slow-motion hail. Killeen remembered for an instant—in the frozenframe way that the height of battle could bring—romping beneath snow as a boy, and having it turn to pebble-hard nuggets, sending him wailing back inside the Citadel.

  These midget mechs showed no preference for humans. Those who landed on the Family tried to buzzsawbore their way in. Three people were hurt before others could pry the machines off. But the other mechs turned to the rocks and tundra, inspecting and burrowing in. Soon fumes drifted from their labors, acrid foul clouds that did more to drive the Bishops away than had the assault.

  They regrouped, calling names until every Bishop was in formation. The machines blanketed the area and the Family trotted to a nearby rutted rise before looking back. The voracious specks were uprooting and converting a lengthy swath that stretched from the far hills. The corridor had missed the Rooks entirely.

  “Damned if I ever saw a Duster drop such,” Killeen gasped.

  “Looks like they’re eatin’ the rock.” Toby pointed.

  —Dusters tried to smother us, as I remember,— Ledroff said moodily over comm. —Not this.—

  “They fight tundra,” Shibo said, her face withdrawn as she studied the spreading mob of noisy machines. She stood erect, composed, all equipment in place. Killeen noticed, though, a scrape on her suit, as if something had tried to hold on.

  “How?” Toby asked.

  “Grind down rock?” As Shibo shrugged, her exskell whirred and flexed. “Seal in ice?” Another shrug.

  Killeen nodded. “Tryin’ repair the damage the Splash did. Stop the greenery.”

  Toby asked, disbelieving, “Weren’t after us at all?”

  Shibo grinned, shaking her head in a sad, slow way. “We not important.”

  “I still don’t understand how it works, these li’ 1 bugs ever’where,” Toby persisted.

  “Neither do we,” Killeen said.

  SIX

  They had lost some gear to the gnawing machines. There were two walking wounded.

  A sour brown cloud billowed from the crawling appetite that edged like a locust tide over the hill and began to forage among the rocks of the narrow valley.

  Family Bishop linked with Family Rook and they put two ridgelines between themselves and the horde. They settled again for the night and slept in edgy awareness of the blank sky.

  They rose and readied themselves in the first glimmerings of the dual sunrise. Denix and the Eater brimmed at the horizon, with Denix showing its soft yellow.

  As Killeen and Toby ate chaws for breakfast, Killeen could see the swooping, obliterating clouds that necked into the disk of the Eater. They filled a full quarter of the sky, letting no stars shine through. He tried to think of these shapes as outlines of three-dimensional forms but could not figure why the clouds seemed to narrow down as they neared the Eater disk. Arthur’s prompting voice went on about dustclouds shaped down into the thin disk by the rubbing of tiny particles against one another, but Killeen could follow little of what the Aspect said.

  He tried, though, more than he had for many years. Shibo’s simple but clever devices had rendered a fragment of the world comprehensible. He felt concretely a growing conviction: to live, the Families had to imagine, to invent, to change.

  Despite the unnerving Duster assault, he had slept well. Around him, Bishops went about their breakfasts with faces unlined by fear. He smiled at this.

  Sorrow was the lot of humanity, Killeen knew that bone-deep. All the Aspects’ bragging of past glory could not hide that. The Family’s songs and tales rang with woe—but equally with joy.

  In ancient days, when the first mech intruders had attacked the crystal Arcologies, children had played in the shattered ruins even as fresh bombs were on their way. Lovers found each other amid chaos and destruction, and delighted in their discoveries. In besieged Citadels, doomed to fall, romantic ballads were sung in dim cabarets and crowds laughed at the jokes of comedians. Ancient scholars quietly labored to the day of their deaths on the work to which they had devoted their lives. Soldiers and scavengers of the Families had eaten and drunk with relish, mere hours before mustering forth on suicidal attacks. And he and Veronica had celebrated the arrival of Toby as the threat of Marauder assault had
closed about the darkening Citadel. Humanity had a gift for finding the persistent glimmer in a pervading night.

  Ledroff’s orders rang in the comm, —Form the wedge!—

  Killeen took a right-flank edge position. They headed directly toward the apparent Splash center. Green in creased through the morning and Killeen relaxed somewhat. Last night’s wildness and flight slipped away. Killeen let Toby come up from the midranks and take a spot one man inward from him, along the axis of the moving Family arrow. The Rook arrowhead kept good pace a hill’s-width away to right.

  They were moving uphill when two things happened at once. Toby called, —Yeasay, I heard somethin’,— in evident reply to a hail from left flank.

  Killeen asked, “What’s that?”

  —Some piping on the comm. Not from us,— Toby said.

  “Rooks?”

  —Naysay. Came and went. Not mech, though. Left flank is goin’ out, have a look.—

  At that instant Killeen opened his mouth to reply and he saw the navvy. It was nipping to his right down a draw, fast, headed for a saddleback indentation that would take it over the hill. It carried the telltale crosshatching.

  Killeen did not think twice or even once. Losing the navvy before had chewed at him and now he took off at a quick pace, boots on full. His alerting yelp rang through the sensorium, less like the call of a man than the blurted cry of an animal in hot pursuit.

  His boots dug into the gravel and loose soil as he plunged ahead, angling close to the ground in a running position, tilted forward and thrusting, momentum nearly parallel to the sloping ground. Dimly he sensed Toby churning uphill behind him, Shibo farther back. Even Cermo-the-Slow moved up from rear flank, which was contrary to standing orders. Cermo showed no slowness from hangover, and sent a hunter’s whoop through the comm.

  The navvy disappeared over the hillbrow. Killeen ran to cut it off, figuring that it would ease downslope to pick up speed and not simply wrap around the hill. Only when he crested the rise did he think that the navvy might have been with the Mantis, and when the idea struck him he let his momentum carry him down into a sheltering hillock of soft grass.

  He closeupped the valley beyond. It was empty. He tried shifting through his filters and jerking his vision to bring out any projected mirages. Nothing. Just the figure of the navvy making good speed downhill, heading right.

  That course would take it into the Rook pointwoman within minutes. Killeen checked the valley again. No distortion, not the slightest jigsaw-vision. No Mantis, as near as he could tell. Toby came pounding up and nearly fell over his father.

  “Yeasay Isay. Let’s skrag it!”

  “Hold a minute.” Killeen carefully studied the fleeing machine.

  “Same one’s yes’day?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Let’s go. They’ll be here in minute.”

  Killeen could see the Family drawing up into fight-or-flight formation, blue pips in his right retina.

  Toby cried, “The Rooks’ll get it!”

  “Let’s try from here,” Killeen said, unclipping his weapon. “Better shoot from shelter, just in—”

  The navvy lurched sideways, bringing a jumble of boulders into Killeen’s line of sight. “Damn!”

  “C’mon, let’s do it.”

  “Wait, I—” But Toby was up and skittering diagonally downhill, going for the maximum angle on the navvy.

  “Toby!” Killeen launched himself on the opposite tack, to be sure he had a crossfire position.

  All this caution for a navvy would probably make him sheepish later. This might well be a Mantis navvy, but even so, navvys were dumb and vulnerable.

  And Killeen wanted to have a close look at one, take it apart, get Shibo’s opinion. They had to learn mechtech, and fast.

  Still, Killeen was suddenly acutely aware that Toby would be exposed within seconds. Quickly he fired a burst at the place where the navvy, still out of sight, would probably be. He counted on the heavy rounds at least to confuse the machine.

  His boots drummed along a gully, shortcutting through, and leaped some brambles on full power. He began panting heavily.

  When he came into the clear he saw the navvy churning away from Toby’s line of sight and into his. Its treads bit heavily, spitting gravel, and it buzzed swiftly away.

  There would be a clear shot after all. The navvy didn’t seem in all that much of a panic. Its brushed aluminum carapace stood out against the green valley beyond. The range was reasonable.

  Killeen raised his weapon and heard a burst from Toby, who couldn’t have a good angle yet and was wasting fire. Rounds kicked up turf, far wide and high of the navvy. A second burst came closer but still high.

  The navvy stopped and seemed to look around. Crosshatching was clear on its side panels.

  Killeen shot it. He saw pieces of the cowling tumble away in the clear air.

  The navvy made a quick motion and a dark spot came up the slope fast and low and hit him in the face.

  It came in through his right eye. He toppled backward and felt a swift black storm squirt into him. A searching coldness spread through his forehead and left arm and hand.

  Ice ricocheted blue in his eyes. Chrome-hard lightning stung in his left elbow.

  Vision came back. Smells. A roaring.

  He was rolling downhill. He tried to stop himself. Stones dug into his side and his left hand wouldn’t move. He kicked at a boulder with his feet and that slowed him enough to fetch up against a bush.

  He tasted warm blood. Somebody was shouting. Bitter cold seethed in his neck, down his chest. Shouting, loud and too fast to understand.

  He rolled over. Heavy firing, quick hard slaps in the stillness.

  He used his right arm to prop himself up. He had rolled a pretty fair distance and the navvy was on its side nearby. Its guts spilled out in a gray tangle.

  He tried to lean on his left side and gasped as sharp yellow barbs thrust up into his shoulder. It felt as if something raw and rough was chewing on his left hand.

  He managed to get out a strangled cry. Purple specks swam in the bleached air. Voices called incoherently.

  Killeen looked around wildly and nearly lost his precarious balance on the hillside.

  Shibo came over the horizon on a high leap. She landed with legs spread to pivot and fire in any direction, weapon at the ready.

  Killeen called, “Toby… I…”

  —Over there.— Shibo pointed.

  Buzzing hot gnats circled his head, nipped at his eyes.

  He wrestled himself over onto his left side. The hill veered, tilted, wavered in shifting greens and yellows. Killeen blinked to clear his watery vision.

  Toby was down. He sprawled on his back, eyes fastened on the sky.

  “Son!”

  Toby’s eyes moved. His hands scrabbled down toward his twisted legs. Across the sea of Killeen’s sensorium came a weak, “Dad… I… can’t move… my… legs.”

  “Lie… lie down,” Killeen managed.

  He opened his mouth to speak but nothing would come out. The sky, he saw, was utterly clear and empty of meaning. He had to get up.

  Gasping, he pushed with his hands so he could sit up. His right arm was rubbery and shot through with tingling. His left arm was a hollow weightless vacancy.

  He could not sit up. With a grunt he rolled partway over so he could see most of the hillside. The navvy was not moving. Shibo came down the hill, leaping among slate-gray boulders. Cermo was behind her. They were all very slow and shining in the bleached hard light that slanted through the air.

  And the buzzing gnats were biting his eyes now and they would not go away.

  SEVEN

  Twilight came laced with high orange clouds.

  Killeen felt as though he walked on similar high puffy softness, for he could barely feel his lower legs. He had been marching for some time, unmindful, knowing only that he had to press forward into the neutral, dimming air. He felt himself merge with the settling mind-mist that swarmed
about him, a fog through which he could see the details of a long, downsloping valley slide past. The scenes jogged and rocked so he knew he was walking through the cool dissolving grayness.

  Some had said he should be carried. A part of Killeen had wanted to yeasay, to ease onto a stretcher. But he knew the subtle balance of the Family. Toby had to be carried, since his legs were gone entirely. On even a moderate march the carriers would tire. Best not to double the cause of complaint by adding Killeen’s heaviness to the Family burden. For the rule of the Family was plain: no permanently disabled were toted on the march. They were left—sadly, with proper ceremony—to whatever fate they could meet.

  This time was different. Killeen knew this but could not immediately summon up how and why. He simply walked numbly through the pearly fog of his own diffused and quiet world.

  Directly ahead of him Toby swayed in a shoulder-hinged carry between two men. The boy was sleeping. Even so Killeen could see Toby’s eyes roll and jerk behind pale lids.

  Killeen wondered if the boy felt anything below the hips at all. It had been hard to get him to talk as they lay together on the rounded hillside. The grass had been cushion enough, but Shibo and Cermo had brought sleep pads for them, a luxury neither had felt in years. They had lain there and Toby said little as the Family fretted and busied themselves around them.

  Killeen had felt as though he were a boy himself. It had been like that long ago, lying in the fields near the Citadel, drowsy and speculative as he gazed into a sky that unfolded into infinite cobalt fineness. This hillside also gave itself to the sky as though he and his son were offered to it on an altar. Killeen had tried to focus himself then but faces and times had come flitting into his mind like birds. His father, leaning with casual grace on a mech strut at the end of a successful raid, grinning in a way Killeen found mysterious until he saw years later that it was triumph tempered by still-raw memories of many defeats. His mother, picking among mechwaste and coming up, prettily agog, with silvery cloth no one had seen before. All the pictures had flowed by as if behind thick glass. He had talked to Toby about them in the unthinking way a father feels that the merest detail of the past, shared, preserves that instant in the character and perspective of the son.