A violent shake of the head. “Of course not. We’ll continue advancing, but we’ll be more careful. Someday, the chip will return, but we will have learned our lesson. We’ll keep them divided and apart. We won’t let them become our masters, ever again. We won’t submit. Not ever again.”
The governor’s bowl was half-full, but dinner was now over. He picked up the envelope, nodded to the envoy. “I will read this tonight. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Murphy seemed pleased. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very much.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
And as he waited for dessert—an apple pie made from last year’s dried apples, he was promised—he knew that a meeting with his State Police colonel was now on the agenda for later tonight.
In the early morning the next day, he got dressed in his cold and spare room and then hobbled out to the dining room, where a young female State Trooper had prepared his breakfast. He sipped the tea and munched on a dry piece of wheat toast and then, staff in hand, went out to the porch.
His colonel was standing there, resplendent in his uniform, sharply dressed and cleanly shaven. He nodded to the governor as he stood there.
“Crisp morning, sir,” he said.
“That it is,” the governor said. He leaned some on the staff and looked out at the common area. The flagpoles were still there, the limp cloth flags still hung, and in the distance, horses still grazed in the common pasture.
But there was no car parked before him. No old car with old technology and UNPLUG blatantly and obscenely painted on its metalwork.
The colonel handed him a rucksack. It was heavy.
The governor said, “Did it go all right?”
“It went fine.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” the governor said.
“Sir . . . do you . . . do you need my help?”
He shrugged on the rucksack. “No. You know how it is. Something I must do myself.”
The colonel’s face seemed set and determined, like that of a grown man, trying hard very not to weep.
“Thank you, sir. You honor us.”
The governor smiled, gently slapped him on the back. “Don’t fret, Malcolm. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Bacon and eggs, no matter what the Health Commissioner says.”
“Very good.”
And then he stepped off the porch and noticed that the residents of his capital, his state, were in the shadows and on the porches, watching him. He raised his staff to salute them, and then walked into the dark of the woods.
Hours later, heart pounding, legs trembling from the exertion, the governor rested before his destination.
The climb had been tough, very tough, and when he got back—God willing—he would have a word with his Parks Commissioner. The mountain trails in all of the state were mostly overgrown and in disuse, but this one, especially this one, had to be kept cleared. It had been a rough time, going through the woods, over a few streambeds, and then advancing up the slope to this exposed ridgeline. He was glad of two things: that he had kept his walking staff with him and that the envoy hadn’t visited in the middle of winter.
Now he was on a ridgeline of granite rocks and boulders, and before him, about fifty yards way, was a small stone and wooden building. Decades ago, it had been part of a hut system, but no casual hikers ever came this way now, not ever. Staff in hand, he made his way slowly to the hut, critically looking at the shingles and the windows and the old satellite dish, up on the roof. The place still looked in good shape.
At the door, he paused, lowered his head, and turned the handle. The door opened easily, and he walked in, his boots sounding loud on the wooden floor. The door was never locked, for why should it be? No one save him and a few acolytes devoted to the building’s upkeep ever came this way.
Light came in from the windows, allowing him to see fairly well after his eyes adjusted. Before him was small room that had once been the dining area, and to the left were bunkrooms, where hikers had spent the night. Posters and signs and flyers, decades old, hung on bulletin boards by rusted thumbtacks. He ignored it all and went to the right, where the hut crew had lived, where they had operated and run the hut, and where . . .
Well, where it all was.
Heart pounding, he let his staff rest against the wall and then undid his rucksack. He went down a short hallway and then opened another door, and then he paused, heart pounding even harder. The room was clean and tidy and kept warm by a series of battery-operated heaters, and before him, in the middle of the room, was an office desk. And on the center of the desk, staring back at the governor, was a large monitor. The building’s networked computer still running, still operating, and from the little red light on the webcam camera, still watching and listening.
The governor bowed. How could he have explained this to that man from Cambridge, about what had occurred here? For ever since he had found this place decades ago, and had paid the necessary obedience, his people had lived, had thrived, had known peace and comfort. As he had said, they were in balance, and peace, and who was he to disturb that?
“My lord,” he said softly to the blue computer screen, recalling that spiteful jig from the envoy, “we seek your forgiveness for the blasphemy that occurred yesterday, a blasphemy we failed to halt, and we ask that you accept this sacrifice in your honor.”
He dragged a dusty metal chair before the desk and, reaching into the rucksack, pulled something heavy and cold from its interior. He held his breath as he held up the object before the webcam, making sure it was visible, and then he gently lowered the severed head of the envoy from the mayor of Cambridge onto the chair. The eyes were closed, and he was grateful for that small favor.
And then the governor lay prostate before his master, before his god, and said in a voice full of passion and piety, “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” content in the knowledge that he was showing true faith and allegiance to the one that had the power of life and death over his people, his people who depended on him.
A heavy burden, but one he knew he had been destined to bear.
Cold Dead Fingers
by Loren L. Coleman
Loren L. Coleman has been writing military-tech science fiction since his discharge from the US Navy in 1993. His first BattleTech novel was published in 1995. Since then, he has written over twenty published novels including MechWarrior, Vor, Star Trek, and recently a military-fantasy trilogy for the Conan relaunch. He lives in Washington State with his wife, Heather, three children, two Siamese cats, and a neurotic border collie. He holds a black belt in traditional Taekwon Do, coaches youth sports, and, because he doesn’t have enough to do, he is currently building a new, larger home. It’s either that or selling his teenage son to local gypsies to make more room for his growing DVD collection.
Platoon Sergeant Marcos Rajas threw himself back hard into the slash trench as a spotting laser splashed crimson jewels across the polarized faceplate of his Interservice Combat Assault Suit. Just in time. Hyper-velocity pellets cracked the air in a fury of tiny sonic booms. The trench’s crusted rim exploded in a spray of dust and stone chips and razor sharp splinters that peppered his arms and chest and pinged off his helmet.
A fresh sting burned into his left shoulder, and he knew even before the ICAS diagnostic flashed a BREECH WARNING across his retinas that suit integrity had been compromised.
Military jargon for he’d been fragging shot!
He drew in shallow breaths, tasting his own sweat as well as a metallic tang from Antares VII’s mercury-laced atmosphere. Enough to worry him. The ICAS had sealed itself around the wound, and nanite scrubbers were already bleeding into his air supply to break down the poisonous air, converting the heavier molecules into raw material for patching over the breach. But that took time.
“Teach me to stick my head up,” Marcos gritted through clenched teeth.
A half dozen inquiry icons lit up in a standing column along the edge of his faceplate. Gravel. Tommy-G. The Jo
es came in three, four, and five. And Books. Marcos swept them aside with a glance into the VOID and an extra-long blink to clear his queue. Overriding the network, he slaved what was left of his platoon to his own suit’s tactical computer, and in the blink of an eye (literally), he uploaded enemy positions into everyone’s weapons.
Gravel’s inquiry flagged again, this time with a flashing exclamation, but Marcos ignored it.
“Cans rolling up on the northwest slope,” he called out over STANDARD VOICE. Barking each syllable. “Walkers south. Split the diff. Fire! Fire! Fire!”
Without raising their heads, the fifteen men remaining to Second Platoon thrust CAR-7 assault rifles above the rim of the laser-cut trench and cut loose. Fast and accurate target selection required at least one pair of eyes and often a touch of human intuition to understand how the battlefield was unfolding, but there was no need to aim by sight once tactical data was updated in the rifle memories. ICAS technology handled that part. Able Squad, with more bodies, concentrated their firepower against the Canisters—not much more than large antipersonnel mines riding an axle between two wheels and the simplest of botbrains slung underneath in a protective casing.
The six Alliance soldiers left in Bravo hammered away at the cyborg Walkers that scrambled through the broken territory directly south, attempting to flank the Alliance position.
One-handing his own rifle, Marcos held it overhead like a periscope breaking the surface over a tortured landscape of craters, deep laser slashes and pockets of swirling gasses. He thumbed the trigger stud and joined his fire with Bravo. The weapon screeched in its trademark wail, joined the caterwauling symphony of his platoon, driving rusty knives through his ears. The air rippled with dispersed energy. Washing through the wide slash trench in overlapping waves, the landscape appeared to melt and then reform.
Marcos counted three thunderclaps—AP Canisters detonating on the lower slope—before safety protocols kicked in to deactivate his platoon’s combat assault rifles, preventing them from overheating.
“Override!” Marcos shouted. Captured the SAFETY icon out of several nesting in his peripheral vision and blinked that into the VOID as well. CAR-7 safety margins were conservative. They always had one extra burst in them.
Again he joined his fire with Bravo, cutting away at Walker positions. The AP mines were the larger tactical threat, if barely, but when it came right down to it, he’d rather meet his end in a flash of fire and shrapnel than captured by the Cybs. Brain scooped out and shoved into a jar. Reprogrammed and wired into a gun turret somewhere, maybe a smart bomb. From a cyborg’s point of view, parts was parts. The hell of it was wondering if some part of your consciousness remained, unable to help itself as you were turned against your comrades, your own race. Barracks horror stories. Maybe. No one had determined whether that was true or not.
Or, if someone did know, no one had passed that info down the ranks.
Another pair of thunderclaps. Five total! Half of the Canisters Marcos had scoped earlier in his quick glance over the rim. He’d hoped for one more, at least. Seconds ticking away, the high-pitched wailing rose to a fever pitch, grinding at the base of the skull. Reality shifted and jumped as waste energy washed through the trench, his men reaching deep into their suit reserves.
Most of them, anyway.
Through the waves of distortion, Marcos saw Jerimiah Gravel tucked into a narrow crevice. Mimetic armor in Gravel’s assault suit had darkened to the same reddish-black as the trench’s laser-scorched crust, but movement tended to spoil the effect. Gravel pointed his weapon straight up into the air, working his trigger assembly to no effect.
Damn! A failed rifle was just as bad as a casualty out here. And if one man had pushed his gear too hard . . .
Marcos quickly slaved the platoon to his ICAS master, VOIDing their combined assault program and placing all soldiers back on SELECTIVE FIRE protocol. The general cacophony died down into an argument of individual shrieks.
“Books,” he called out in STANDARD VOICE. Shoved himself away from the trench’s wall.
A bit unsteady on his feet at first, blinking away the aftereffects of the heavy energy distortion, and his left shoulder still hurt like hell. Stumbling forward, he was caught by Books. The young corporal steered Marcos over to Gravel’s side.
“Sarge. You all right?” The boy’s Savannah III accent bled his words together into “Y’awlrite?”
Platoon pinned down by Cybs, he’d been shot, and what was a little mercury poisoning between allies? Marcos hooked them into a private comms channel.
“Great. Fine. Next time I’ll just throw you over the rim instead. Now give me a hand.”
There was Gravel’s inquiry, still flashing red-and-amber on his right-side Christmas Tree. He hooked Gravel’s icon to his comms system and cycled Books in as well.
“Overheat?” he asked, starting with the worst possible scenario. Hardest problem to fix once it happened.
“Frag me if I know, Sarge.” Gravel’s voice was soft and musical. Before his number got pulled for duty, he’d been a tenor with the Choir of the Angels. Hearing him swear was one of the funniest things in the ’verse. Most days. “Borging thing just up and quit.” He held the rifle out as if for inspection. Shook it.
Say what you like about Alliance Interservice Duty, the one thing they did not do was send a man to the lines with inferior equipment. CAR-7’s were state of the art. The rifle’s “stock” held a core of solid tungsten from which assemblers stripped out perfectly-shaped rods no more than a sliver in length. Feed a chain of rods through the acceleration chamber, and with muzzle velocity at even a fraction of Big-C one didn’t need a great deal of mass to punch a hole the size of your fist through as much as two feet of armor composite. Not even that much of a recoil to worry about, as the weapon’s arrestor assembly bent Newton’s laws into waves of energy that sprayed back in a harmless fan. Just a slight distortion in the air and that unearthly wailing, which no sound suppression system could ever fully mask. Rattled the back teeth a bit, might make the ears bleed from time to time, but all in all a solid weapon.
A solid and highly complex weapon. To fix it, one usually needed an armory’s tech shop. What the platoon had out here on the backside of Antares VII was Books, who had probably memorized the entire CAR-7 operating manual by now.
Well, that was something, at least.
“Talk to it,” Books said. And Marcos nodded.
The rifles had memory and a great deal of processing power. They also possessed a sophisticated diagnostic system which, normally, the ICAS assault suit interpreted for the soldier, restricting them only from core programming and a few “safeties” that were supposedly limited to Alliance Interservice tech specialists. Rate of fire, energy dispersal—specifications of that nature. But one of the first hacks a cadet learned after boot was to use a suit’s communications system to access the full diagnostic, “talking” his way into that deeper programming, setting up a few specialty commands of his own, such as the ability to override the heat-safety protocol.
A downloaded patch could even give the rifle a voice, though Marcos always found that a bit creepy.
Gravel shook the rifle again. “Tried that, don’t you think I tried that? Can’t get it to answer any query.” He turned to one side and beat the rifle against an outcropping of half-melted stone. “Something wrong, piece?” he shouted at the silent weapon.
Now here was a path to unsettle unit morale in a hurry. No soldier should ever treat his weapon that way. Marcos barred his own rifle across Gravel’s chest, pinning him back into the crevice. Laid hold of the other man’s barrel, twisting it away from the ground—
—and yanked it right out of his hands.
Which sat Marcos back, hard and left Books squatting nearby, equally dumbstruck. Because that should never have happened.
The wail of rifle fire died off quickly. Tommy-G elbowed Big Mike, who did a double take to see Marcos holding two rifles, and Gravel so obviously still alive. A
ll three Joes hugged their own rifles tight against their chests, as if their sergeant might try to strip them of their weapons next.
One Joe shook his head. “What the bloody hell . . .” “. . . is this about?” another of the synthetic soldiers finished.
Both of the General Issue soldiers had dropped into STANDARD VOICE. Their software packages allowed them to mimic human emotions to a T. Their incredulity matched exactly what Marcos was feeling.
ICAS technology did not allow a soldier to relinquish his weapon. Ever. One hand remained locked on the rifle at all times, unless it was locked into the chest clips or “slung” against the magnetic plate built into a suit’s left shoulder. A simple transponder system made certain that the weapon would not unlock for anyone but the registered owner. Not unless he was dead, or at the very least unconscious. Even then, it took a command override by another combat assault suit to pry a weapon loose.
“They can have my weapon when they pry it from my cold dead fingers, and with the proper security codes,” was a popular soldier’s refrain.
“Back on the wall,” Marcos ordered. Tossed the rifle to Books. “Tommy-G, grab a look. Bravo, give him some cover fire. Able . . . grenades!”
He reached for one of the three fist-sized canisters clipped to his suit’s belt. When his gloved hand took firm hold of the grenade, sensor feedback pulled a drop-down menu across his retinas. In a few winks he had dialed YIELD to maximum strength, programmed his throw, and set a safety of thirty meters standard in case of a bounce-back or a dropped canister.
The grenade released into his hand, and with the rest of Able Squad (not counting Books and Gravel) he chucked it out of the trench and into the no-man’s land beyond. No worries about range or the strength of his throw. At the top of its arc, each grenade stabilized on an electronic gyro, and then a propellant burst hurled it along the preprogrammed throw.
Man Vs Machine Page 6
