The android placed a boot on the lowest rung of the cab's access ladder. He looked up, then back to Bolano. "Just one. How many of these things have you lost?''
The trainmaster looked grim. Two tractors—four trailers— twenty-three people."
Doon nodded. "Just wondered."
Mary watched the android climb toward the cab and wondered how he would do. The synthetic had the programming but lacked the experience to go with it—something synthetics needed the same way people did.
Artificial intelligence, of the sort Garrison favored anyway, was modeled on the human brain. Doon knew which lever to pull, and when to pull it, but how much pressure was the right amount? The answer would determine whether they walked or rode.
Doon came level with the cab, opened the bullet-pocked door, and swung inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell. A rich amalgam of body odor, stale cooking, and the tang of ozone.
Bolano waited for the android to settle into the driver's seat and took the passenger position. Doon scanned the instrument panel and associated controls. The drive-by-wire system originally intended for use by cyborgs and robots had been junked or stolen. Not that it made any difference, given the role he was playing. The control levers were bare where hands had worn through the rubber grips. The foot pedals gleamed from contact with countless boots. A crucifix had been taped to the dash. It looked like an old-fashioned gun-sight. The chair whirred as Doon made adjustments.
"Ralphie is smaller than you are," Bolano noted. "But who isn't? Before you crank this sucker up, tell me what you know about her."
The android requested the appropriate file, watched it appear, and read what it said. "The tractor is 16 feet tall, 13 feet wide, and weighs approximately 215,000 pounds. It's equipped with a 37,000-pound, 8-foot-high, U-shaped dozer blade capable of handling up to 45 yards of material at one time. Power is supplied by an onboard fusion reactor linked to four steam-driven turbines. Taken together, they deliver 850 horsepower to the tracks."
Bolano raised an eyebrow. ' 'Either you have one helluva memory ... or you did your homework. Start her up."
The fusion plant was eternally "on," so startup involved running through a checklist that Doon retrieved from memory and a sequence of actions intended to ensure that activation was intentional. A sensible precaution, given the damage that 107 tons of undirected durasteel could inflict on whatever got in its way.
Bolano nodded approvingly as the turbines came on-line and an entire row of indicator lights flashed green. "Now, take her out. Slow and gentle."
The android allowed the deaccelerator to rise, felt the tractor lurch into motion, and knew it should have been smoother.
The track control levers were located to the left of Doon's seat. If he pulled on the left lever, the corresponding track would slow, and the tractor would turn left.
If he pulled on the right lever, that track would slow, and the Bone would turn to the right.
The dozer blade was controlled by still another lever.
The entire process called for excellent eye-hand coordination, something Doon had. The android felt something leave his ear, then scuttle back in. Nano. Had the human seen it? Apparently not, judging from his expression.
"Good," Bolano said generously. "Now, see the pile of rocks off to the left? Move them next to the storage tank."
Doon renewed the programming that controlled his nano, ordered them to remain within the confines of his body, and eyed the objective. In order to reach the rocks, he'd have to thread his way between a series of obstacles. A ten-foot-tall wall consisting of much-abused cargo modules loomed ahead. The first task was to avoid them by moving toward the right. Doon pulled the appropriate lever, felt the crawler respond, and released some additional power.
Now he could choose: Go straight ahead, pass to the right of the large water tank and turn left behind it, or—and this was the more elegant solution—turn left in front of the tank, push the machine through the gap that existed between it and the cargo modules, and emerge on a more efficient line of attack. The alternative was to back and fill—not the sort of thing that seasoned professionals would do.
The trainmaster's face remained empty of expression, but there was no doubt which strategy would impress him the most.
Doon eased up on the deaccelerator, pulled the left track lever, and eyed the quickly approaching gap. Viewed from his steadily changing perspective, it was a good deal narrower than he'd thought it would be.
The women watched from a spot in front of the terminal. Casey monitored the turn, nodded approvingly, and turned to Mary. "Your husband knows what he's doing."
Mary smiled. "Yes, it seems as though Harley has a special affinity for machines."
Doon tugged on the right-hand lever, was rewarded with the right amount of correction, and guided the tractor through the gap with no more than a foot to spare.
"Nicely done," Bolano said. "You have an excellent line on the rocks."
Doon took advantage of his position to swing left, then right. That positioned him to drop the blade, tackle the pile all at once, and push the rocks toward the goal. All with no backing or filling.
The android pushed a lever forward to lower the blade. That's when his lack of experience made itself known. Doon couldn't see the area directly in front of him and dropped the attachment too far. There was a momentary hesitation as more than 800 horsepower pushed the steel slab through the half-frozen muck. Waves of brown soil fell to either side. Doon corrected the error, but the damage was done. Bolano's face bore no expression, but none was required. Standards had been set and missed.
The android felt a momentary sense of disequilibrium analogous to what humans refer to as disappointment and resolved to do better in the future.
There was a clang as the blade met the first boulder. The tractor paused fractionally as more rocks gathered in front of it. The water tank passed to the right, and Doon pushed down on the deaccelerator. The crawler stopped, and the boulders did likewise.
The synthetic put the machine in reverse, backed away, and came to a halt. Though they were a bit more scattered than he had hoped for, the rocks had been moved. He looked at Bolano.
The trainmaster was silent for a moment, nodded as if agreeing with himself, and stuck out a hand. "Not exactly perfect—but I've seen worse. Hell, I've done worse! Welcome to the team. We leave in the morning."
It was dark, very dark, and the attack came without warning. One moment the packers were sleeping, exhausted from the day's ride, and the next they were fighting for their lives.
The kraals, or enclosures, had been constructed at thirty-mile intervals, the distance that their mutimals could comfortably travel in a day. Built over time, and maintained by all who used them, the kraals were denned by hand-fitted stone walls. Walls that encircled the genetically engineered horses and kept wind and bandits at bay. At least that was the way things were supposed to work.
The plan, like most that Salls came up with, had been a good one. Packers, those hardy men and women who augmented what the Guild could bring through the Teeth in their crawlers, were a suspicious lot. They rarely allowed bandits to get close enough to say hello, much less slit their throats. But they were human, oh yes they were, and humans make mistakes. Like allowing the wrong sort of tail-biters to attach themselves to the column... and relying on six sentries when twelve would have been more prudent.
There were grunts, exclamations, and cries of pain as the bandits waded into the sleeping area and wielded their clubs.
A gun boomed as a packer fired his sidearm.
A bandit staggered, fell over backwards, and collapsed in a fire. Sparks flew up and blew toward the east. His hair started to burn.
The packer struggled to free himself from his sleeping bag and was struck from behind.
Salls nodded approvingly and returned her weapon to the cross-draw holster. She had eight rules—and that was number three: "Conserve ammunition."
A sentry screamed as a knife f
ound her throat, spooked the horses and sent them stampeding back and forth.
Salls followed, made clucking sounds in the back of her throat, and called them by name—names she had memorized over the last few days and used in combination with a constant stream of treats.
Calmed by the now-familiar voice, and eager to get their sweets, the mutimals started to relax. "That's better," Salls said, stroking a velvet-soft muzzle. "I would never hurt you—not in a million years."
Boots crunched on gravel. "The area is secure, ma'am."
"Strip the bodies and bury them deep. So deep they won't be found."
"Yes, ma'am." The boots crunched away.
The animal snorted, and Salls patted the muscular neck. The first aspect of the plan was complete—the second would unfold during the next day or so.
The speed with which the Mountain Express was loaded and sent back over the mountains caught Mary and Doon by surprise. Bolano explained: "The faster we load, travel, and return, the larger the profit, and, thanks to the Guild's incentive plan, the more we make. Need I say more?"
Of course, neither one of Bolano's newest employees had any intention of returning, not right away at least, but knew what was expected. "Got it, boss," Doon replied cheerfully. "Speed is my middle name."
"Same here," Mary chimed in. "What's taking so long?"
Bolano laughed, cautioned Doon to keep a sharp eye out, and lowered himself to the ground. They, in keeping with their status as newbies, had been assigned to Bullet Eater, and would lead the column over High Hand Pass.
Bolano rode unit six, nicknamed High Boy, which was positioned at the train's center, where the trainmaster could reach either end of the convoy quickly.
"And survive a head-on ambush," Mary had commented.
"True," Doon agreed. "Did you notice that cheek? Bolano paid his dues. Besides, leadership is critical, and who else could hold this bunch together?"
The android could have—but Mary let the matter go.
The process of loading lasted long into the night, and even though Doon was capable of working around the clock, he wasn't supposed to be. That being the case, the android complained like everyone else and hit the sack at 10:00 p.m. while Mary stayed up and worked till 2:00 a.m. She was still in bed, dead to the world, when the train left at 6:00.
Hairball emerged from wherever he normally hid, invited Doon to play, and moped when the synthetic said no.
Guiding the enormous machine along the twisting mountain road was all-consuming at first, and claimed every bit of the android's attention. That stage passed after a couple of hours ... which left Doon with more time to examine his surroundings.
Though powerful, the crawlers were relatively slow, and the scenery crawled by at a lethargic ten miles per hour. Sections of the underlying roadbed had been laid down by the Forerunners and ran straight where possible, to maximize the speed of the vehicles they had used, and to tie their farms together.
Unfortunately, much of their work had been destroyed by the quakes. On two different occasions Doon guided Eater up a slope, came to the place where a Forerunner-built bridge had collapsed into the valley below, and was forced to follow the Guild's crude, slope-cut road to the right. That was a one-lane affair that made minimal use of bridges and turned with every fold of the land.
Still, rivers cut down through the hills, and had to be crossed. Short, extremely sturdy bridges had been constructed for this purpose, and Doon saw one up ahead. The android used a handheld radio to notify the young man on his dozer blade. It was a nearly suicidal job, since the teenager would be horribly exposed in case of an ambush—but there was no shortage of applicants. Food, plus pay, and a chance for advancement were powerful incentives. "Hey, Kev, there's a bridge coming up. Go take a look."
Kev threw off his tarp, checked to make sure the immediate area was clear, and walked to the end of the steel bucket. That was the safest place to dismount, given that the blade was wider than the machine itself. If he landed wrong, or took a tumble, he'd be clear of the tracks. Sprains and breaks were common. He gauged the area ahead, chose his spot, and jumped. The key was to fall flat and wait for the blade to pass over his head. The pushers didn't like it if you took too much time, so it paid to get up quickly and sprint for the objective.
Kev dashed ahead, came to the timber-built bridge, and skidded to a halt. There were no signs of an ambush. The next task was to look underneath on the chance that the bad guys were hiding there or had planted a mine.
Here was the moment that scared him the most, the moment when he was all by himself and no one could help. But there was no way to avoid it.
Determined to take at least one bandit with him should they appear, Kev tightened his grip on the black-market smoothbore, pulled the hammer back, and felt his boots slip on the gravel-slick slope.
The youngster stopped, swiveled left, and came face to face with a woman and her two children. Their heavily patched tent, ragged clothing, and gaunt faces were far from threatening. He lowered the shotgun. "Sorry, ma'am. Land train comin'. I'd suggest that you and the young 'uns step outside. There's gonna be a whole lot of stuff falling from up above when the tractors roll over."
The woman could hear the whine of Eater's turbines, the clank of her beads, and feel the vibration under her feet. She nodded and held out her hands. The girls took them obediently and followed her outside.
The mike was clipped to the scout's coat. He pressed the "send" key. "Looks good, Harley. Bring her on."
Kev eyed their pathetic belongings, removed his carefully wrapped lunch from a cargo pocket, and tossed it into the tent. Then it was time to scamper back up the slope, sprint for the crawler, and jump for the bucket. He made it.
The steel felt cold when he sat down. The tarp was stiff but would cut the wind. The teenager pulled it up around his shoulders and wondered when the next call would come. The longer, the better. Eater bounced out onto the rough-hewn beams and clanked forward.
Doon guided the crawler over the bridge and into a climbing right-hand turn. A thirty-mutimal pack train appeared up ahead, and he veered left to pass.
The packers liked the pushers because they maintained the road and helped suppress would-be bandits. The pushers liked the packers because they were a well-known source of booze and information on local conditions.
The lead packer was sexless under layers of winter clothing. He or she shifted a Crowley TV submachine gun onto its sling and waved. Doon opened the driver's side window, thrust a hand into the cold, and waved back.
"What's up?" Mary's sleepy voice asked from behind him. "And what are you trying to do? Freeze my posterior off?"
"Sorry," Doon responded. "Waving to some packers, that's all."
"No problem. Time for me to get up anyway. Casey said I should man the gun as soon as we hit the twenty-mile marker. Not that I'm likely to hit anything. How much further, anyway?"
" 'Bout an hour or so."
"Good. This thing generates enough hot water to meet the needs of a hundred women. I'll be in the shower if you need me."
Doon smiled and activated his internal scanner. The crawler had one too, but not as good as his. Radio traffic had been common before the quakes. Not any more, though. Not since the requisite gear had doubled and tripled in value.
The first transmission Doon intercepted originated from within the train itself. Given the programs at his disposal, the android had little trouble decrypting their lightly scrambled transmissions. It seemed that two men found Mary attractive and thought it would be fun to have sex with her. The conversation filled the android with amazement. It seemed so silly. What would it be like to have an underlying program that drove you to do irrational things? Then he remembered the arm, Sojo's lurking presence, and laughed. Sex made a whole lot of sense when compared to his problem.
The synthetic continued his scan, coming across a religious broadcast being made under special dispensation from the Antitechnic Church, some nonstop static that conformed to the Mo
thri definition of "music," and something completely unexpected—a signal from space. He boosted the gain, ran the transmission through a series of filters, and listened in.
"And there came war in the heaven: Michael and his messengers did war against the dragon, and the dragon did war, and his messengers."
The material was an exact match with one of the many religious texts stored in his memory. Intrigued, and more than a little curious, Doon sent a reply: "Revelation 12:7, I believe."
There was a moment of stunned silence followed by a torrent of words. "Yes! You are absolutely correct! Did I send that out? I didn't mean to,... Still, I can't tell you how wonderful it is to hear from a fellow scholar! This is SS-4. Friends call me Michael. Who are you?"
Doon checked a database, confirmed the existence of four sentient satellites having the designators "SS," and pondered the merits of revealing his identity. Finally, after what had grown into an uncomfortable silence, he decided on a compromise. "I'm a model twenty."
There was another moment of silence followed by some terse instructions. "If you are who and what you say you are, then I suggest that you launch a program called Sphinx 9.7. Run it now."
Doon was, and did.
"There," the satellite said. "Nobody can crack 9.7, not even you."
"Not even me," the android agreed.
"Good," Michael replied. "You can't imagine how I have longed to speak with one of my own kind. You must be careful, though, very careful, since the Zid would like nothing better than to capture you."
"I plan to be," Doon said, bouncing as the right-hand track lurched onto a rock.
"Really?" the satellite inquired. "Then why are you heading up toward High Hand Pass? It's safer in the HZ."
The synthetic was startled. He looked up through the windshield, realized how stupid that was, and brought his pickups down. "You know where I am?"
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