This was McGlowrie's second excursion on foot into the pit, and he doubted he would survive it—that he had survived the one previous verged on the miraculous. Three days, of which he had spent nearly a day unconscious. He had used his skills to good effect, but he knew he had been lucky, and he did not expect his luck to hold. The first leg of the excursion—straight back to the command-control unit, a boxcar-sized unit sandwiched between the gargantuan factory units, went without incident, as did springing the hatch and wriggling into the crawlspace between the outer wall and the AI's mainframe. The second leg, however, would be trickier. Denise and Bromley should be able to make it to the ore crusher with no trouble, but hunter-killers would soon be swarming about the rover, hurrying from every part of the mine, alerted to the distress of a large machine. Emergencies triggered a signal back to base, but they had neither the necessary personnel nor resources to mount a rescue. As for help from the company, it might or might not be sent; if it were, it would take two or three days to arrive. They were on their own.
He located the panel he was seeking and popped it. Once activated, the replacement AI would take control of the mine within minutes and transmit an irresistible signal encouraging the old AI to do the right thing and shut itself down. He wished he had some discretion in the activation process, that he could, for instance, send the hunter-killers away from their location. But if the company had been of a mind to give him such discretion, they would have gone the extra mile and reprogrammed the hunter-killers to differentiate between machines and mine personnel wearing protective gear. They didn't give a damn about the safety of their employees at the Emperor; they did the bare minimum to sustain production—more would not be cost effective. The workers had no leverage; they were glad to have the work, and, though they were in line for pensions and decent retirement packages, one misstep and they would be transported to Happy Face or Chemo City or Little Egypt or whatever cesspool they hailed from. It had not escaped McGlowerie's notice that everyone who worked in the Emperor was a slumdweller who had clawed their way out of some disastrous environment to achieve their station and thus was psychologically as well as economically indentured to the company. For that reason alone, McGlowrie thought, he should have realized that something was wrong about Bromley.
Braced against the wall, his helmet light the sole illumination, he punched in the activation codes and thought about Denise, her specific variation on their common sad tale. One of four children born to a woman whose name she either could not or did not wish to recall; two siblings dead in infancy of birth defects and one simply vanished; running loose in the streets of Sonyland, effectively a slum of the LA-San Diego corridor, its name derived from the old Sony maquiladora in Tijuana; abducted and turned out as a child prostitute by the time she was eight. It made his own upbringing in the ganglands of the Northeast seem pastoral by contrast. They had gone on vacation in Baja a few years back, and their helicopter had overflown a portion of Sonyland. Streets that ran between canyons of smoldering garbage; a battle fought with automatic weapons and machetes in the streets; multiple fires engulfing a neighborhood or a hovel—from the air they had looked to be islands of smoke and flame in an ocean of tinder.
The interior lights came on, confirming that the AI had recognized his suit code and was now operational. He replaced the panel, rested his head against the wall. His adrenaline rush had subsided, and he felt weak, trembling with stress, inadequate to what lay ahead. Every second wasted decreased his chances of living, but he wasted ten of them before crawling out into the pit.
· · · · ·
The worst of the storm had passed into another quarter of the Emperor, but it was slow going nonetheless. For years, McGlowerie had begged the company for improved protective gear, but his requisitions were always denied. Now they were stuck with antiquated helmets with untrustworthy computer imaging and a night-vision function incorporated into their faceplates, displaying the Emperor, on average, as dark indistinct objects against fields of blurry, solarized green. The faceplates were all, to one degree or another, in need of replacement, and McGlowrie's—though he had tinkered with it for hours, improving it vastly over its previous condition—offered an impression of the mine that was dangerous for its falsity. Black patches might be phantom walls or something else entirely; sheets of brightness on the ground might be tailing ponds or nothing at all. Depending on their metallic constituency, the clouds above the mine were a confusion of sooty blobs and puffs of glittering particles and irregular shapes that had the flat, bright aspect of fresh green paint. Once his night vision was employed, the Emperor became an abstract video—as a consequence, one was forced to go cautiously. Adding to the confusion were swarms of fliers that moved with the fluid unity of schools of fish, particulate currents in the air, the rain streaking his faceplate, and the noise … though noise could work to his advantage. The machines perceived one another by means of motion detection, heat signature, and echo reflection; they did not attempt to progress silently; thus a hunter-killer, when sneaking up on a damaged yet still mobile machine, shifted its robotic arms through a sequence of attitudes, in effect trying to disguise itself, to present an attitude that would confound its prey—in doing so, it created a racket that a man with his audio set to filter out distant sounds might recognize.
To avoid the hunter-killers that (so McGlowerie assumed) were milling around the front of the rover, engaged in a feeding frenzy, he struck off in the opposite direction, planning to circle around and come at the wrecked ore crusher from behind. In his pack was all the bottled water he'd had time to collect. He carried his weapon in his right hand; in his left was a metal wand that could project a pulse capable of shutting down any cybernetic device within range—but its range was short, its effect temporary, and it was unreliable when used against the larger machines. Another cost-effective decision by the company. Every couple of minutes he scanned his armor to make certain it was free of diagnostic units that might have attached themselves and would, reading him as an anomaly, signal his presence to a hunter-killer. It took him longer than he had planned—nearly half an hour—to reach a point about twenty-five yards behind the crusher, close to the pit wall. He crouched beneath a projecting ledge, waiting for a recycler to lumber past: a machine the size of a small elephant, its shape vaguely resembling that of a rhinoceros with its horn lowered—the "horn" actually a scoop with which it collected parts left by the hunter-killers and deposited them in the hollow of its back, where they would be sorted by diminutive robots that spent their entire existence at this work, like enslaved imps. It was a tired old thing. Patches of bright dust on its sides. Grinding along on treads that, judging by the sound, were badly in need of replacement. Soon it would be prey for the HKs. Watching it pass, McGlowrie felt a momentary empathy with this monstrosity, but long before it vanished against the backdrop of shifting greens and blacks, his anxiety had returned.
The ore crusher was two stories tall, longer than it was high, segmented into three well-like compartments (Denise had left a bottle of water beside the central one to mark where she and Bromley had taken shelter). The iron bulge that protected its brain and guts had been torched open and emptied. It lay tipped onto its side, its rear end elevated by a hill of rubble. In its attitude and bulk, it reminded McGlowrie of NASA video transmitted from Titan thirty years before, showing an artificial object that had either been erected or crashed upon the moon during, it was estimated, the late Cretaceous, upthrust against a less complicated sky than that of the Emperor yet seeming equally mysterious. The video had bred an irrational hope in people, the anticipation that this unexpected alien event might be an omen of something unforeseen in their own futures. Two days afterward, the transmissions ceased, the link was never reestablished, and it faded from the public mind, becoming fodder for psychics who claimed to be receiving messages from Titan. It came to nothing, but it had been a nice moment, a bit of vacation from the crush of reality.
The ground that lay between McGlowrie
and the crusher was flat beneath a covering of dust as fine as pumice but was broken and humped on the left and right. Flashes of brightness issued from behind one of the mounds, but they were too erratic to be anything other than flaws in his visual field. He could find no reason not to go forward. He was about thirty feet from the crusher when he spotted a hunter-killer advancing from his left, farther away than the crusher but not by much. There was no use in running. It would be on him before he'd gone five feet. He knew his heart must be pounding, but he couldn't feel his chest. The HK crept closer, shifting its robotic arms through a variety of postures, like the dance of a mechanical spider, eerie movements that half-hypnotized McGlowrie. He gathered himself, preparing to fire at its treads. The HK closed the distance another five or six feet, near enough that he could hear the rapid snapped-twig sounds as its arms worked through their changes. For an instant, its body flared a blazing green and the arms darkened to burnt, crooked matchsticks, an effect that—albeit illusory—caused it to appear even more menacing, more surreal. Then it paused in its dance, a full-stop, and darted off to the east. Some richer target acquired. Faint with relief, he forced himself to go forward and, seconds later, climbed inside the central compartment of the crusher, a pitch-dark chamber more spacious than most one-bedroom apartments. The floor—the side wall, actually—was littered with chunks of ore, tilted downward at a steep angle. It clanged at his step. He switched off his night vision, switched on his helmet lamp. Denise crouched against the rear wall. The light from his lamp glazed her faceplate as he came up, making any hint of expression impossible to read. Bromley was stretched out beside her.
—Did you have any problems? McGlowerie asked, touching his helmet to hers.
—Just with him, she said. He wouldn't shut up, so I cut off his radio. How about you?
—I had a face-to-face with an HK, but then it found something it liked better.
—Your fucking luck, she said, sounding almost aggrieved.
—Don't knock it. We may need it. We should try to get clear of the area. I know of a tunnel not far from here.
—A tunnel?
—Yeah. About seventy years ago the company started building a second base, but then I guess they needed the money somewhere else. They'd already set-up temporary living quarters in the tunnel for the crew when they pulled the plug. They might still be functional.
—Right. Though her voice was diminished by his earpiece, Denise's sarcasm was evident.
—That's the best I've got. If you have a better idea, say.
—How far to the tunnel?
—Best case, twenty minutes. But you know how it goes. It could take an hour, hour and a half.
Denise absorbed the bad news. Then what? Plan B?
—If we can hole up in the tunnel for a day or so, I think we can expect the company to send someone.
—Maybe they won't.
—They'll want to learn what we've seen … if we found anything new. It's not an urgent thing, but as long as they've stirred off their asses to come up here, they'll get us. I suppose they'll want to collect Bromley as well. Last time I was stuck out here, they dropped in an urban control vehicle to pick me up.
—Yeah?
—Yeah. Then they flew me to Seattle for debriefing. Very luxurious. You'll like Seattle.
—I bet. She gestured at Bromley. What about him?
—Turn on your overhead … and give me the control.
She passed him the remote, switched on her helmet lamp. McGlowrie switched his off, able now to see through Bromley's faceplate in the indirect light. He shifted himself over and kneeled beside him. Bromley glared at him, but his defiance was a veneer and when McGlowrie laid a hand on his chest, he flinched and started talking, his voice all but inaudible through the helmet.
McGlowrie said, I've given you back your receiver, but not your transmitter. So just nod or shake your head. Okay?
Bromley's head jerked, as with a muscle spasm, and McGlowrie called it a nod.
—You know where you are now, don't you? he said. And now you've seen things for yourself, you know what we're up against.
Bromley nodded vigorously.
—Some friends were in on this with you. Right?
A less vigorous nod.
—Where are they? Out in the pit?
Bromley blinked, shut his eyes.
McGlowrie slapped the side of his helmet. Wake up!
The eyes popped open.
—How'd they get in? McGlowrie asked. Did they stow away in one of the freight cars? When they got to the railhead, they were going to rappel down the pit walls?
A nod.
—So you were the inside man … yeah? You were going to help them. But you realize now, don't you, they're beyond help?
A pause, then Bromley nodded.
—I'm going to give you back your voice. No fuss, okay? Just listen and respond.
With the transmitter on, he could hear Bromley breathing.
—We've got a walk ahead of us, McGlowrie said. It'd be handy to have another set of eyes and ears, but if you do anything out of line …
—Let me up, Bromley said.
—You see. That right there, that'll get you dead. Don't talk unless I tell you. I'll let you up in a minute, but first I want to discuss tactics.
—Give me a weapon, said Bromley. I don't stand a chance if I don't have a weapon.
McGlowrie switched off Bromley's radio.
—We can't afford to drag this asshole along, Denise said. You know he'll do something stupid.
Bromley's shouts were like shouts from an apartment down the hall.
—Kill him … or leave him, she said. Either way works for me.
—I won't leave him.
—Then kill him. If you can't handle it, I'll do it. Denise stared at him, resolute.
Bromley's muffled shouts grew louder; his suit trembled violently, reflecting his struggle to escape.
From without, a scraping noise that sent a chill washing through McGlowrie's groin. Please, he said to himself, knowing that his generic prayer would not be answered. And then the hatch cover was thrust aside by two spindly, rust-sheathed arms. A hunter-killer appeared in the opening, visible in the beams of their helmet lamp, its body flipped so its treads were on top, allowing it to use its arms for climbing. It must have been damaged in some way—it was having difficulty gaining a purchase, attempting to haul itself over the lip of the hatch. Before McGlowrie could draw his sidearm, Denise fired off two rounds. The first tore away one of its legs, the second hit the torso dead center, blowing a ragged hole. They both fired at the HK, scoring multiple hits, yet still it clung to the hatch, its engine whining like an enormous dental drill. With a clatter, it toppled into the compartment, sliding two-thirds of the way down the incline before coming to rest against some chunks of ore. They kept firing until it stopped trying to roll over onto its treads. Lying there, a lacework of rust fettering its metal surfaces, arms twitching feebly, it resembled a spider more than ever. Thin smokes drifted from holes in its casing.
Fighting off panic, assuming that more HKs would be coming, McGlowrie grabbed Denise by the arm, pushed her ahead of him up the incline, then thought of Bromley and turned, aiming his sidearm. Denise screamed. One of the HK's arms had caught her by the ankle and snatched her upside down. McGlowrie put three rounds into its torso, a fourth into the housing at the base of the arm—it relaxed its grip and dropped Denise. She screamed again and reached for her ankle but seemed afraid to touch it. He scrambled up beside her. The suit had sealed about the wound, but there was a lot of blood. Can you walk? he asked.
—No.
She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, but the tension began to drain from her face and by that he knew her suit's medical pack had given her an injection. There was no injection, however, to counter the metallic poisons working their way through her bloodstream.
—Goddammit! she said.
—How're you feeling?
She breathed deeply. It's better
.
—Still think you can't walk?
She nodded, wetted her lips. Looks like your luck doesn't extend to me. Her words were slurring.
McGlowrie was having trouble keeping it together, wanting to console her, knowing they had to get moving, realizing that it didn't make much difference what he did.
Denise touched his hand. Mac? It's okay. Whatever you have to do, it's okay.
—Fuck that, said McGlowrie.
—No, it's okay.
—No, fuck that!
She blinked, closed her eyes again, and murmured something that was too liquid a sound to make out. She rebounded a little and said, You know how much I want to try Plan B.
—It's not crazy, he said. We can make it.
She laughed weakly. You get us out of this, I'll give you a blow job that lasts for a week.
Then she passed out.
He scooted back down beside Bromley, restored flexibility to his suit, and switched on his radio.
—You were going to leave me! said Bromley as he came to his feet. He might have said more, but McGlowrie jammed the sidearm into his stomach and told him to carry Denise. He jabbed Bromley again to get him moving. Denise moaned when Bromley lifted her, but said nothing.
—Easy with her, McGlowrie said.
He was later to realize that, if he had switched on his night vision before poking his head through the hatch, he might have mistaken the man for a machine and shot him. As it was, he nearly shot him; he meant to shoot him, stopping in mid-act, the trigger partially depressed. The man was standing on the ground below the hatch. He was slight, incredibly thin, his dark skin given complex articulation by the bones and muscles beneath. He looked to be wearing a loincloth or a pair of ragged undershorts. There was something funny about his hair, which hung in dreadlocks, but McGlowrie didn't linger over it, his attention commanded by three HKs ranged in a loose semicircle about the crusher, not five yards distant from the man … and yet the man seemed calm, unhurried.
Behind him, inside the compartment, Bromley asked, What's wrong?
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 46
