Morning was breaking by the time he finished work on the remote. It was going to be a clear day in the Emperor, as clear a day as ever there was—gray and drizzly, with a cover of roiling, dirty clouds, the lower reaches of the pit swept by gusts of wind-driven particulates. McGlowrie popped a stimulant and stared out the port. Through the shifting haze he made out a yellow spew of sulphur from a smelter far across the pit. A cloud of glittering particles sailed past and, turning as one, arrowed off westward. A smallish herd of bedlike carriers loped past on double-jointed legs, loaded with lumps of gray metal (platinum, perhaps), and, in their wake, a single hunter-killer, its suspicions aroused by some electronic cue. The mine floor would have resembled an anthill if he could have seen it clearly; however, the drifting curtains of haze hid much of the activity and caused it to seem peaceful, like a foggy morning on another planet, a wilderness where machines took the place of cheetahs and antelopes and elephants. The wind lessened and the haze grew more dense. A mobile conveyor, one of the most ancient machines in the pit, with several dozen major parts grafted onto its body, its belt raised high and held vertically to the ground, emerged from the murk and then paused to allow the passage of a herd of boar-sized drillers on their way to exploit a mineral vein that required a specific style of excavation.
—Hey! said Bromley at his back. I want to talk to you.
McGlowrie turned and Bromley's tone grew less peremptory. You're not doing anything, right? he asked. It's okay to talk?
—Sure. McGlowrie forced himself to appear companionable and sat down against the wall, wanting Bromley to feel in charge.
Bromley peered through the port. Can't see much with this rain.
When the rain stops, we get hurricane-force winds. You wouldn't want to see what happens then. Not from this perspective.
Bromley grunted. Thing get stirred up, do they?
—Yeah. Stirred up.
Bromley rubbed the port glass, trying to wipe it clean, but the dirt was on the outside. You said you were stranded out here before.
—Uh-huh. Three days.
—What was that like? I mean, what happened?
—I was doing an inspection. We used to have these two-man vehicles we used for quick trips. Fact is, the one I was out in that time, that was the last of them. I couldn't get the company to fund a replacement. They didn't think the inspections were important.
We got caught in a rockslide. The vehicle was totaled. Morse, the guy with me, he was killed. My faceplate was breached. I thought I was going to die. I patched the faceplate, but the shit I'd breathed in was killing me. I wandered around for a while, delirious, and then I hid under an excavator and passed out. There was heavy HK activity in another part of the pit—one of those humongous conveyors went down. If it hadn't, I'd have been history.
—You said you were lucky, but … Damn!
—Blessed is more like it, said McGlowrie. Chosen of God and the machines. Is this what you wanted to talk about?
—I thought your experience … maybe there'd be something there that would help us get out of this.
—Don't worry. I'm working on it.
—You're talking about Plan B?
—I'll fill you in when it's time.
Bromley glanced out the port again. I'm not an idiot, you know.
McGlowrie kept his face neutral.
—I understand what we've got here, said Bromley. With Peck, I mean.
But you're not an idiot, thought McGlowrie. Right.
—I understand the problem he creates for you and Denise, Bromley said, injecting the words with a mixture of earnestness and sincerity. You're in trouble with the company, with just about everyone. Between a rock and a hard place. As I see it, there's only one refuge for you and Denise. And that's the Movement.
—Your group?
—No, my group's just a cell. And … I guess they're gone.
—Oh, they're gone. They didn't have a fucking prayer.
—Like with Saddler, huh?
McGlowrie suspected that Bromley was intentionally probing the wound, testing him, albeit none too subtly. So tell me who these people are, he said. These people I can trust.
—No, no, no! Not yet. Not until we work some things out.
McGlowrie could see that Bromley believed he had the upper hand, that McGlowrie needed what he had to offer. Pacing back and forth, his gestures grew broad and inclusive—he was prepared to be generous now he thought he was in a good position. McGlowrie doubted that he himself had ever been so callow. In Jack Rags, callow didn't get you very far.
—I will tell you they're committed to the cause, said Bromley. And they won't hold it against you that you worked for the company. They understand how it is with people coming out of the ICUs.
—They do, huh? said McGlowrie. That's a relief.
Bromley didn't seem to have heard. They know how bad things are, he said. They haven't buried their heads in the sand. They realize if the problems of the ICUs aren't solved, everybody's problems are going to get worse. That's why Peck … It's amazing. A miracle. They'll do what's necessary to get the benefits out to the people who need it. You can count on them.
—They have the capability? Manufacturing? Distribution?
—Oh yeah! They're well funded, and they have good tech people. They provided us with those fliers we … Bromley broke it off. Look, man. I'm really sorry about Saddler.
—Casualty of war.
Bromley cast him a dubious glance.
—I'm not going to deny that what happened didn't make me want to break your neck, said McGlowrie. If you wanted to control the rover, that wasn't how to go about it.
—I'm aware of that now, but …
—Didn't you or your tech people … didn't they know what would happen once the rover was breached?
—They had no way of knowing!
—They should have known. They should have been able to figure it fucking out! McGlowrie held up his hands, palms outward. All right. Saddler's dead, your friends are dead. What's done is done. He closed his eyes for a second. We've got to start moving forward.
—That's what I've been telling you.
—Yeah. Yeah, you have.
—So what're you thinking? We can't sit here and wait for the company. You know what happens then.
McGlowrie cocked an eye toward Bromley, as if debating his worth; then he stood. Put on your gear. And drag Peck away from whatever he's up to.
—What are we doing?
—We're going hunting.
· · · · ·
With Peck along to keep off the hunter-killers, things went without incident as they made their way across the pit, but McGlowrie knew better than to feel secure. There was a narrow corridor between an oval leaching pond—a big one the size of a small lake—and the pit wall, through which ore carriers moving north to the railhead were likely to pass, and they took up a position close by the pond, kneeling behind some loose rubble. Bromley asked several questions. McGlowrie gave curt answers and told him to pay attention to Peck, who kept trying to walk away, probably wanting to return to his video game and his box of dirt. After twenty-five minutes, a small herd of carriers emerged from the haze, showing first as movement, then the boulders of grayish-black uranium ore atop their beds becoming visible, and then their legs working in that strange double-jointed, herky-jerky gait—like headless Martian ponies. McGlowrie pointed his projector but at the last moment saw that they were too wide to fit inside Peck's tunnel and let them high-step past. Waiting grew long. He shut down Bromley's attempts at conversation and watched long-legged spiders skitter across the surface of the pond, their mesh feet leaving waffle patterns on the surface, a doughlike, silvery goo edged by lacy black foam. Once the men were surrounded by a swarm of the dragonfly-shaped diagnostic units, several of which identified them as spare parts. The clouds overhead thickened; the light dimmed to an ashen dusk. Hunter-killers gathered, prevented from close approach by Peck's implant, sitting motionless at a range of five yards.
Their silhouettes alternately blurred and sharpened as the wind shifted, driving clouds of particulates. McGlowrie began to stare at things without seeing them, to let his mind wander. He watched raindrops impact the surface of the leaching pond. After another half hour, a herd of carriers loaded with molybdenum approached from the south, and these were of an appropriate size. McGlowrie stopped one in mid-stride with a jolt from his projector, scrambled atop it, and cut open its brain case with a torch. The carrier woke while he was adjusting its systems controls—he gave it a second jolt and kept working, linking his suit's computer to the carrier's brain, reprogramming it by typing in the changes on his keypad. When he had done, he hopped down off the carrier and, using the remote he had customized earlier that morning, caused the carrier to release its clamps and dump the molybdenum, then to canter back and forth, generally putting it through its paces. He beckoned to Bromley, who came forward, herding Peck ahead of him, and asked what he planned to do with the carrier.
—Mount up, said McGlowerie.
Even through his dusty faceplate, Bromley's bewilderment was evident. This is your plan? he said. You want us to ride this thing out?
—Right to the rim. McGlowrie boosted himself up onto the bed. With Peck on board, it should be a snap.
They hauled a reluctant Peck onto the bed, and, after Bromley climbed on, McGlowrie punched the remote and the carrier set forth at a trot so bumpy it nearly threw them off. Peck panicked, kicked and flailed his arms, but Bromley hung on to him. McGlowrie stopped the carrier and jumped down. Not the smoothest ride, he said. Once I modify the clamps, it'll get us there.
The carrier had brought them to within six feet of one of the HKs—seven in all—that had gathered while McGlowrie worked. They had become such icons of fear over the years, even now, inert, they frightened him. The wind gusted; a gauzy curtain thickened and faded, behind which the HKs appeared to shift ever so slightly.
—Let's go, said Bromley.
—I might want to try reprogramming the HKs, said McGlowrie.
—What?
—I said I might want to reprogram the HKs.
—I wouldn't do that, man. You should think it over.
—Why the fuck do you suppose I'm hesitating?
—They could have a booster system, like the ones security robots have. Kicks in when the casing is breeched, or when it senses heat … whatever. That would neutralize Peck's implant.
—Have you heard something to that effect?
—No, but it would make sense.
—Up top, maybe. Down in here? I doubt it.
Moving closer to the HK, McGlowrie felt as if his legs had taken over for his brain. He imagined he could feel it vibrating, straining toward him. With its arms folded, motionless, it looked innocuous: a harmless oblong of rusted metal on treads, except for one of its arm—a recent replacement—that showed only the odd bacon-colored fleck. He could reach out and touch it. More to the point, it could reach out and touch him.
—Come on! said Bromley. Don't screw around with it!
—We could use some backup. A couple of HKs … that'd be good backup.
—We've got Peck.
—Peck might not make it.
—Don't! said Bromley as, holding his breath, McGlowrie laid a hand on the HK's back. A faint tremor passed through his palm, and he waited to be torn apart. After a five second count had elapsed, he began cutting into the HK's carapace. He had intended to modify the programming of several machines, but he dropped his torch twice, his hands trembled, and he had difficulty in establishing a computer link. Once he had a link, he made frequent typing errors. After twenty minutes, he was satisfied that he had complete control over the HK and that it would shut down when it read his suit at a distance of five yards, overriding the linkage with Peck's implant. He felt drained, weak from the tension, and decided not to push his luck. The other HKs had undergone significant repairs; curiously shaped instrument packages bulged their sides, and he didn't know what surprises he might find beneath the casing. Knees wobbly, he backed away from the HK and kept backing until he fetched up against the carrier.
Bromley had kept quiet throughout, caught up in the moment, but now he exploded. What the fuck were you thinking? You had no right! You put us all at risk!
McGlowrie had a twinge of anger, but anger was suppressed by a larger sense of accomplishment, and he ignored Bromley's demands for a response, for an apology, for a do-over. It wasn't clear what he was demanding, probably just blowing off steam, but McGlowrie thought that Bromley might be entitled to throw a fit, because things weren't going to improve for him any time soon.
· · · · ·
McGlowrie checked in on Denise. She was still unconscious, but the uppermost section of the surgical package, including the winged extensions, had fallen away, and the implant was fully sealed, embedded in her back, surrounded by puckered, inflamed skin. The paralysis had worn off, and she appeared to be sleeping peacefully. The way she was lying, on her belly, her face turned to the side, her arms arranged loosely above her head—the pose touched something in him. And then he understood that it wasn't the pose that affected him, it wasn't its poignant relation to one of Gustav Klimt's nudes or some other work of art. Call it a habituation or a dependency, call it the thin shadow of love, all the love he was capable of … Whatever, he now knew, if he had not known before, any plan that involved hurting her was not in the cards. The chance he had taken with the HKs was not one he would have taken if she hadn't been in the picture, and he thought this was not entirely born of his desire to protect her but had the emotional temperature of a decision they would have made together. Thinking that discomforted him in a way he couldn't explain, and he wondered whether or not it was true.
He covered Denise with Peck's thin gray sheet and went to work. He had to put up with Bromley's assistance for the first half hour, then thought of something else for him to do and set him to making up survival packs, food, water, and so forth, for all four of them. He spent the next two hours customizing the clamps on the carrier's bed, cutting them down so they conformed to the human body. Memories unrelated to anything rose in him like bubbles in a cooler. When he went to check on Denise again, he found her awake, propped on an elbow. Dropping to a knee by the pallet, he asked how she was feeling, and she said, Alive. Kind of surprised to be alive.
—These machine procedures are pretty safe. He picked up the half of the package that had fallen away from her back; what was left of the wing extensions was wafer-thin, almost weightless.
—I wasn't talking about the procedure, I was talking about you.
She held his eyes for a second or two and said, I may not be a rocket scientist, but I can add and subtract just fine. Why didn't you kill me? It was the safe play.
—If you thought I was going to kill you, he said, why were you so eager to have the procedure?
Her chin quivered. I wanted to get it over with. Now answer my question.
Rather than tell her, than admitting to weakness, he reacted defensively and said, I can't explain it to myself. How am I going to explain it to you?
—I'm not asking for in-depth, McGlowrie. I don't need for you to analyze your toilet training. Just give me superficial.
He looked down at his hands. I figured we're in this together.
—Yeah? And?
He shrugged. You said you wanted superficial.
—God, you're an asshole.
—An asshole you can trust.
—How's that? Because you came down on my side this time, I'm supposed to trust you? You thought about killing me. Don't try and tell me you didn't.
—Seems like you're back to normal. He got to his feet, feeling heavy in the legs.
—You expect me to get all misty about you sparing my life? Next time I might not be so lucky. Next tine your balance sheet might say, She's got to go. I know how bad that would make you feel. but you'd get through it somehow,
He started to say, It's not like that, then thought maybe it was
like that, and then he wanted to ask, Didn't all these years together count for something in her mind, but answered his own question. In the end, all he said was, We'll leave in an hour. Try and be ready.
Bromley made the next hour miserable with his pestering, with his insistence on helping, with his talk … especially with his talk. As McGlowrie finished work on the carrier, Bromley launched into a monologue that roughly defined the insecurities fueling his display of nerves.
—I've been thinking I should give you contact information … for the Movement. But I can't convince myself to trust you. He appeared to be waiting for McGlowrie to take a stab at convincing him. When McGlowrie remained silent, he said, I want to trust you. If anything happens to me and you can't contact them … I don't know what you're going to do. Another expectant pause, after which he went on, I realize you're resourceful. God knows, you've had to be. I suppose you have your own contacts. People you can turn to. But you've got to question the motivation that sort of person's going to bring to the table. The greed, the reflex of greed … I won't deny that mechanism's in everyone, but people in the Movement, they're less motivated by greed than anyone you're likely to know.
Caught partway between anger and amusement, McGlowrie made an inadvertent noise. Bromley asked if he wanted to say something. Nah, said McGlowrie, suspecting that were he to speak, he might not stop until his fingers were pried from Bromley's throat. It was astounding, he thought, that his peers hadn't topped him off years ago … or perhaps these displays of condescension were limited to dialogues with the formerly disenfranchised.
Bromley kept on in this conversational vein, and, when work on the carrier was done, pretending (at least McGlowrie assumed it a pretense) to have been persuaded by some aspect of McGlowrie's behavior, he gave him a piece of paper upon which was written the contact information that he had thus far withheld, repeating that if anything were to happen to him, he wanted McGlowrie and Denise to have a chance. McGlowrie accepted the paper. He had no intention of using the information—the Movement, as testified to by Bromley, seemed an assortment of laughable incompetents—but he recognized this entire business to be a negotiation on Bromley's part, an attempt to guarantee his safety by making a show of faith, and McGlowrie was inclined to humor him. Needing a moment to focus, he sent Bromley to get Peck and sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the carrier. It was going to be a rough ride. If the carrier didn't break their bones, then there were the HKs. He had a vivid mental image of his severed limbs and torso neatly stacked, his head atop them, waiting for the recyclers. Snuffers swarmed like gnats, curious about the blood. His moment alone wasn't helping him focus, so he hopped down off the carrier and went to collect Denise.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two Page 49
