by Oliver Higgs
“Why would you believe me even if I promised all that?” I ask.
“I’m a liar, Tristan. You’re right. But you aren’t like me. You’re a slave to your own honor. I never understood honor. Mostly it gets people killed. But you’ll keep your word. I know that much. I did some rotten things, Tristan. But what’s more important–killing me or finding your friends?”
This is his strength. He’s sees what someone wants or fears, and he uses it to manipulate them. He mixes lies with truth and cares for neither. Worst of all, he’s right. I will keep my word. What’s to stop me from betraying him in turn? Nothing but an outmoded sense of honor, yet that’s all it takes. Sometimes mental constructs can be stronger than physical ones. I don’t want to promise anything. I certainly don’t want him travelling with us. But I can’t see any way around it. We could threaten him, hurt him, but he’s too smart to give up the information. It’s his only bargaining chip.
Could I find the frequency on my own? It’s probably shortwave. It has to work over long distances. If I could find a good frequency scanner, maybe … but that’s unlikely in Mudcross. And a scanner might not pick it up. What if it only transmits a blip periodically, say every half an hour? No, there’s a good chance I’ll find it on my own. Which means Echo and the others would be lost to us.
“One last magic trick, eh Byron?” I mutter.
He has the wits not to smile. I return the axe to my belt and drag him outside.
Chapter 17.
The caravaners are none too happy about leaving Byron alive. The burly driver promises to hunt him down regardless of any promises I’ve made, once Echo and the others are found. It’s an idle threat though. The caravaners still have a good chance of recovering their abandoned property on the road south of Apolis, and I doubt anyone will risk coming north again just to track down Byron (who could be anywhere at that point).
Byron ignores them all. After I tell Starbucks about the situation, the robot takes a long look at him with unblinking black eyes. He nods once. Byron can’t see him, but the silence puts more fear in him than all the caravaners’ boisterous threats combined. I’m doubtful myself that any words will keep him safe from Starbucks when this is over–but hey, that’s between them.
I bind Byron’s wrists tight with a cord from my pack. We make our way to an abandoned electronics store. The windows are broken in and there’s no sign of the owner. With the right parts, a radio receiver can be pretty easy to make. With the wrong parts, it can be impossible. What I’m making isn’t just a receiver though. It’s a direction finder. It has to identify where the signal is coming from and provide that data to the user. I use a circular compass-face for the readout, configuring the needle to pull in the direction of the signal. This is a bit of a trick and I’m pretty proud of it, honestly. Luckily, the shop has all the right parts. We linger long enough for me to cop together a working model. When I’m done, I keep the soldering tube and hand-cranked generator. Then I stuff my pack full of spare parts. I’ve already got the parts from Hapsburg and the device from the supply wagon; I’m building up a solid collection.
“Look at these,” Starbucks says, hefting a small gray sphere.
I give him a puzzled look.
“EMP grenades. Twist this and press–five second delay, kill all the ‘tronics in range,” he explains. There’s a box full of them. Starbucks puts a few in his pack. I grab a number for myself as well. The caravaners do the same, no doubt thinking of hostile robots on the road back.
Back outside, even more plague-walkers have begun wandering south. They’ve had their party. Time to aimlessly wander the z-line again. Our group needs some things before leaving. Some of Mudcross’s residents have clearly survived the siege. They’re barricaded into homes or shops. One tracks us with a rifle from a rooftop. We give him a wide berth. Other buildings have been abandoned, however, and these we sack for goods. The caravaners take weapons and supplies where they find them. Then I make the best find of all: a working vehicle.
I’m not sure if it’s meant for farming or travel or what, but it’s got one wheel up front and a pair of tracks in the back. A solar-cloth canopy absorbs the sun and keeps out the rain. It can hold four people comfortably. It’s sitting right in the street, and the reason is clear. The driver lies dead only steps from the controls. He was human. It appears he was dragged off the vehicle and half-eaten by roamers. Rather than join their fate, he used a gun on himself. I stand looking down at the grisly scene after Starbucks retrieves the keys.
“So he was human. Now you feel bad?” the big robots asks, walking past me.
I see his point. Indirectly, we killed a lot of people in this town. It was easier not to view it that way when all I saw were robots. I always thought of Lectric as a living thing, but it’s not as obvious with these others. I didn’t know them. They might’ve been nothing but mindless automatons. Consequently, it’s easier not to feel bad for them. But the human, well, that could’ve been me. Not that any of this was undeserved. These people, human and robot, lived in a place that thrived on abducting travelers and selling them into slavery. You live on a volcano, sooner or later you’re bound to face lava.
With the half-track and new supplies, our band makes its way out of town.
On the grassy rise, we part. The caravaners embrace me again. They thank us and wish us luck. They curse Byron and spit on him. He affects a conviviality which proves indefatigable, however. He thanks them and makes light comments as though they were honoring him with their saliva. This inspires the burly driver to sock him in the stomach.
“Oh, you’re too kind,” Byron says in a strained voice. “Give the missus my love.”
The driver boots him into the dirt and makes a disgusted sound. The caravaners depart south, leaving the three of us on the half-track.
“Time’s a-wasting, friends!” Byron says.
Starbucks sits next to him, very deliberately, his rhythmic robotic breathing close in Byron’s ear, and says, “Don’t talk again.”
Byron opens his mouth … and thinks better of it. Starbucks just sits there staring at him, breathing in, breathing out. He reaches back and feels for one of his sickles. He brings it forward and begins sharpening it on a small grinding sponge. Byron licks his lips nervously. I take the driver’s seat. The controls are easy to learn. And by the way? Driving is fun. Free. Empowering. I’ve had enough of this walking nonsense. We rumble north.
And north.
And further north.
“You better be right about this,” I tell Byron repeatedly. We’ve crossed broken roads heading in other directions but none that looked traversable. It’s likely we’re on the right track. Nevertheless, I worry constantly. I feel blind, not knowing how close or far the Grass Man is.
At night, we camp in a forest off the road. I tie Byron to a tree.
“Oh, thanks for helping me with this gravity problem. I’d just float away if I wasn’t tied down,” he says, smirking.
“Yeah, pretend it’s all a joke. You’re still the one tied to a tree,” I say.
“Pshh, this is a swim in the pond,” Byron says, shrugging. “Torturing people just isn’t your thing, Tristan.”
“Maybe not. Comes naturally to you though, huh?”
“Torture? I’ve never tortured anyone,” Byron says.
“What do you call locking people in cages and ruining their lives?” I ask.
“I call that the Grass Man’s doing. And hey, if people are stupid enough to trust random strangers and walk into an ambush–well, maybe they don’t deserve quite so much freedom. In a way, I’m performing a service. I’m helping evolution, removing the gullible from the gene pool.”
“Unbelievable. You’re taking money to betray innocent travelers. How do you rationalize that for the greater good? You can’t even admit to yourself that it’s wrong. Well, it really paid off this time, didn’t it? Your face looks like somebody used it as a battering ram.”
“Yeah, and who did that? Speaking of torture
, those ‘innocent’ friends of yours would’ve killed me if the guards hadn’t happened in at the right moment. Your two blonde bimbos were only too happy to help. What’s that make them? I should’ve tasted Echo’s sweets when I had the chance. She knew why we were going into that forest, don’t kid yourself, Tristan. She may have said no, but she wanted it like a cat with its ass in the air.”
My hands are wrapped up in his collar before I know it.
“Don’t say another goddamn word.”
“Or what? Hit me, Tristan. Go on, like your friends. Even they were weak. I’ve been through worse.”
Letting out a breath, I relax my hands and stand up.
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Not the first caravan you’ve sold into slavery, I’d wager. One of the others catch you too?” I ask.
“No. I reckon the others would’ve killed me if they’d caught me. But this is still a swim in the pond.”
“Whatever. All you’ve got are lies and tricks, smoke and mirrors.”
I start to move away but something in his voice gives me pause.
“Lies? Lies, Tristan?” he asks, and his sudden laugh is bitter. “Try being chained up with the pigs for a few days. My step-father was fond of that tactic. I got quite used to eating out of a troth. All the same, he wasn’t angry those days, just bored, you understand? It’s the other days that were bad. I won’t tell you about those. Now, would you do that to a child, Tristan? Would you make them kneel in glass when they ‘walked too loud’? Would you piss on them to wake them if they slept too late? I don’t think so. You don’t have the stomach for it. Real cruelty takes willpower, Tristan. It takes commitment. That’s why I say you don’t have what it takes, and that’s why this is a swim in the pond.”
There’s something dark behind his eyes, and I want to say he’s lying, but I don’t think he is. Well, what did I expect? That he was born evil? People are programmed, much like automatons, only it’s the world that programs us. So Byron had a bad childhood; it doesn’t excuse him from anything he does now. He can still make choices. He doesn’t get a free pass on betrayals. Still, I understand him a little bit better as I walk away.
The next day is much the same. We see a few robots on the road. Starbucks greets them in passing. I keep my eyes down. Starbucks has warned us to pretend we’re his slaves if anything comes up. Humans and robots travelling together as equals is less common and more offensive in these parts.
On the third day, it’s clear the swelling around Byron’s eyes has gone down enough for him to squint. He claims his vision is too blurry to be any good, but I’m doubtful. In any case, I figure it’s time we parted ways.
“You can see well enough. Now give us the frequency,” I say, bringing out the receiver.
“The supplies?” he prompts.
I toss a canteen and some foodstuffs into the road beside our half-track.
“And your word,” he says.
“I won’t kill you. Or maim you. I … give my word. Unless you break the deal. If the frequency’s no good, or if it doesn’t lead to the Grass Man, all bets are off,” I say.
“Fair enough. But what about him?” Byron asks, indicating Starbucks.
Starbucks sighs. Maybe he was counting on the oversight.
“I will look for Jarvis. If I do not find Jarvis, I will look for you,” he says.
“Guess that’ll have to do. I wish you the best of luck then, old chum. Now … I know Tristan will keep his word, but robots I can’t read so well. So here’s what I propose. I’ll take the receiver and go to the top of that hill. I’ll set the frequency. When I set it down on the ground, you’re free to come get it. This way I’ve got a little head-start in case chrome-dome gets trigger-happy.”
Starbucks and I glance at each other.
“That’s not the deal. Give us the frequency or you have need of your tongue,” Starbucks says, reaching for one of his sickles.
“You see? I knew he had violence on his mind,” Byron comments.
“We trusted you once. We won’t make that mistake a second time,” Starbucks says.
“He’s right. No more tricks. Give us the frequency,” I say.
“I didn’t think this was the type of ‘echo’ you were looking for,” Byron says. “Look, we can do this all day. The fact is I’m rather attached to my life. I can’t give you the frequency unless I’m sure of my own safety, and from where I’m standing, things aren’t looking all that safe. Maybe old Starbuckle here gets it in his mind to use that laser rifle. All I want is a little distance first. Setting it to the right frequency is in my best interests–I’d much rather have you going after the Grass Man than me, get it? Reason it out, Tristan.”
What he says makes sense, but that hardly matters. People like Byron will use your own logic against you. They’ll shake your hand while signaling someone to shoot you in the back.
“I’ll keep the receiver,” I say. “You go to that hilltop alone and shout out the frequency. Then you wait there while I check it. If you run before then, or if it’s wrong, or if you try something–anything–Starbucks is coming after you. Deal?”
“Can’t say I’m very fond of that last part, but as I have no reason to lie to you–sure. Happy travels, gentlemen.”
Byron moves into the forest toward the appointed hill. Starbucks watches him, fingering a laser rifle. I hand-crank the receiver to full power and switch on the speaker. Byron reaches the top of the hill. For a second he looks like he’s going to run, but then he cups his hands over his mouth and shouts out the numbers one at a time. I fiddle with the dial. It’s hard to get it just right. It’s not like I spent weeks perfecting the device. Crom, is it not calibrated well enough? I tested it back in Mudcross but it’s been bumping around in my pack since then. Finally, there’s a high-pitched blip from the speaker. It’s getting a signal. The needle jumps to life, swinging north toward the origin. Ten seconds later, the blip comes again. This has to be it.
I look up at Byron. His treachery cost Kitra and Ambrose their lives. What’s honor compared to justice? Why should noble ideas protect the wicked? He should be punished. Even so, it would feel wrong to burn him down after agreeing to this deal. Maybe I’m as trapped by my personal programming as any good automaton. So be it.
“Got it,” I shout, waving.
Byron turns and runs down the hill.
“Let’s go,” I say. But Starbucks is still looking that way.
“I’ll be back,” he says, and takes off after Byron.
I wait, watching the signal.
It’s a long while before the robot returns.
“Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t up to anything suspicious,” he says.
“Was he?” I ask.
“Didn’t seem to be. He saw me while I was following though and panicked, went into a river. He was swimming, last I saw. Must’ve thought I was coming to end it.”
“Were you?”
“I was keeping my options open,” he admits.
With the means to track our prey, we push the half-track north as fast as it’ll go–which is not as fast I’d like. It’s difficult to tell how far the Grass Man is, but the signal gets slowly stronger as we progress. We sort through our weapons and talk about what we’ll do. Our hope is to come upon his camp, take out his bots with the EMP grenades and burn him down with the rifles. We don’t know how well his bots are hardened against pulse weapons, however. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
We come to it awfully soon.
Only two days after Byron’s departure, the needle on the direction-finder swings west. A forest grows through the debris of a few fallen houses on either side of us. I’m expecting the path to fork toward the signal, but there are only trees in that direction. Then there’s something in the road ahead. Something metal. I stop the half-track.
“What is that?” I ask, remembering the mine in the desert.
“Can’t tell,” Starbucks says.
The spyglass reveals more. My eyes grow wide.
“It’s one of the Grass Man’s bots,” I say, throttling the half-track, throwing it forward.
The thing is clearly dead. It’s sprawled in the road, covered in mottled green-brown fur, its cheetah-like legs out to one side. A burn-line has cut it almost in half. No one else is in sight. If there was a battle here, it’s already over. I exchange a worried look with Starbucks. We grab the weapons and get down from the half-track.
The signal lies due west. The forest isn’t overly dense but it’s enough to prevent the vehicle from getting through. We set off on foot. I’ve got my crossbow strapped on, but it’s a laser rifle I’m holding. The forest is eerily quiet–or is it only because I’m listening so closely?
“There,” Starbucks whispers, pointing.
At the base of a tree sits a dead man, his head slumped forward over the blackened hole in his chest. He’s wearing faded green camouflage. I don’t know what to make of him. Other signs of a fight emerge. The trunk of a fallen tree has been sheared off with a beam-weapon. A second grass-bot lies dead in the dirt, riddled with small holes. Blackened grass and dirt surround a shallow crater where an explosive ate a chunk of the ground. Twenty feet from the crater is a single muscled arm with no sign of a body. It’s pale and purple-white, like a rubber toy. Absurd that it could’ve belonged to someone. Bile rises in my throat. Fear too, as we move forward.
Crom, give me strength in battle.
But Crom doesn’t grant prayers. He only respects the strong–which, in all honesty, doesn’t bode well for me. We’re losing light. The sun is an angry red ball ahead, sinking beneath the hills. More black scorch marks mar the grass here and there.
Then we reach him.
The Grass Man.
He’s sprawled headless in a leafy dip between two slopes, at the epicenter of the surrounding destruction. His tall, tufted body has been chewed by bullets and burn-holes. Someone did our work for us–and thank God for that, because it looks like he put up one hell of a fight. More of his bots lie dead on the two slopes. A bevy of trees have fallen along the perimeter, eaten by grenades or energy weapons. Men are dead here too. Three that I count, all in the camouflage. Yet one thing is missing: the sled. The signal still leads west.
