Blood and Iron p-2

by Tony Ballantyne

  They left him. He gazed unseeing at the sun as it rose towards noon. The lead in his body was cooling, but the pain remained trapped there with him.

  He saw movement. The Vestal Virgins returned.

  ‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do,’ said the women in unison. ‘Stand up.’

  ‘I can’t,’ he said, his voicebox buzzing.

  They laughed.

  ‘What, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do the great warrior of Ekrano, defeated by this body?’ taunted one.

  ‘I have seen women with much less lifeforce stand up in much heavier suits. I have put them there myself,’ said another.

  ‘But we know that women can withstand more pain than men.’ said the third.

  Wa-Ka-Mo-Do moved his arms. So heavy, each movement was agony.

  ‘Come on Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, great warrior of Ko. Try harder!’

  He flexed his arms again. So heavy!

  ‘Is that all he can do? The robots of the Silent City fare much better. But they have strength in their minds…’

  The pain threatened to short out his mind, still he forced himself onwards. Flexed his legs. Pushed himself onto his side, with great, heavy scraping movements. He held his balance for a moment, then he rolled forward heavily onto his front. The movement jarred, sent more pain surging through him. He felt the cooling lead shifting around him, thundering agony through his body, lances of fire and surging current. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, he forced himself to his feet.

  ‘I can… I can… do it…’

  He saw the look in their eyes, just for a moment. They concealed it immediately.

  ‘You… didn’t, didn’t… think… I could!’ A surge of triumph, so weak against the pain.

  ‘Not at all. We’re just surprised it took you so long.’

  ‘Liars!’

  ‘And now, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, it is time for you to…’

  Her voice trailed away. She was gazing up into the sky. All three of them were. Gazing at something behind him, something out towards Sangrel. Wa-Ka-Mo-Do remembered Rachael’s words…

  Tomorrow morning. When we are far enough away…

  Painfully, agonizingly, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do turned to follow the gaze of the Vestal Virgins. A small star was falling, it crackled with lightning.

  ‘What it is it?’ said one of the women.

  ‘It’s a… human device,’ replied Wa-Ka-Mo-Do. ‘The Emperor has

  … betrayed you, too.’

  The electric star fell, and as it did so a thin line of lightning flickered down to the city. It felt its way this way and that around the broken-roofed ruins of the Emperor’s Palace, there at the top of the city. Then another strand of lightning flickered forth, and another. And then the air was filled with dancing lines, an electric rain storm of brilliant threads. They felt their way from the city, out across the lake, heading to the mound.

  Wa-Ka-Mo-Do and the women watched as the threads of light climbed up the Mound of Eternity, seeking them out, touching the terrace, looking for something.

  ‘Look how it seeks my hand,’ said one of the Vestal Virgins, and she waved her arm this way and that, the strand of lightning following her movement.

  ‘And me,’ said another. ‘Look it touches my foot.’

  She tilted back her head and let off such a lovely sound that it took Wa-Ka-Mo-Do a moment to realize that she was screaming.

  ‘What is it?’ called her sisters, and the threads touched them and they too screamed.

  More lightning was dancing in now; it surrounded them like bars. The Vestal Virgins tried to run, tried to dodge. To no avail. The threads touched their hands, their feet. The air was filled with their cries of pain.

  The electric threads found Wa-Ka-Mo-Do and he felt a muted ache, almost lost against the background of agony that already filled his shell.

  ‘But it’s not so bad…’ he said.

  The Vestal Virgins didn’t seem to notice. One came to Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, her hands held out in supplication. He took them in his own and watched as the electric threads found their way into her mind.

  He looked into her eyes as they glowed stronger and stronger, there was a buzzing thump and her mind exploded. The air was filled with white light. Two more thumps as her sisters died in the same way.

  Now the threads felt their way to Wa-Ka-Mo-Do’s head and…

  Spoole

  This is how Kavan had done it, thought Spoole. He hadn’t so much commanded events as ridden them. The revelation had been a long time coming, but now he understood.

  Spoole wasn’t like Kavan: he had been woven to lead. He saw Artemis as something to be shaped and guided, something to be directed towards specific goals. Kavan hadn’t been made that way. It had long been rumoured that he was made in Segre, that his mother had followed Nyro’s pattern when she had made his mind. Finally, Spoole understood what that meant. Unlike Spoole, who sought to lead, Kavan saw Nyro’s way, and he followed that path. It was a subtle distinction, but an important one. And now Spoole had learned to apply it.

  As Spoole walked along the railway lines, following Nyro’s way, heading towards the Centre City, the word spread. Robots who had wondered at the human’s arrival here in Artemis. Robots who distrusted the motives of the Generals, robots who believed that all metal should be directed in Nyro’s way. Robots looking for a leader to express their feelings.

  Spoole and his growing army left the area of the marshalling yards. They began to walk the long mile by the cable walks, down the corridor of steel cable left piled by the sides of the road.

  There was a rhythm developing to their tread. Faint for the moment, but growing.

  Stamp, stamp, stamp.

  Yellow-painted workers emerged from the buildings to join him.

  Together, they marched on.

  Wa-Ka-Mo-Do

  Ka seemed fixed to the horizon. No matter how far Wa-Ka-Mo-Do walked, it remained dark and ugly in the distance. The sea wind blew thick ribbons of smoke inland. At night, their undersides were lit red with the burning fires.

  All the while he felt the bitterness of defeat, the burning shame that was so great he almost welcomed the perpetual agony the Vestal Virgins had woven into his body.

  Almost welcomed. The pain was too great. Every footstep sent a bolt of pain up through his legs to jar his body, a variation in the static agony that filled his shell, a counterpoint to the anguish that filled his mind.

  He had failed completely. Failed the Emperor, failed himself, failed the robots of Sangrel.

  Nearly every one of them was dead.

  He had struggled through the streets and lanes of the city, painfully dragging his new body along, heaving his leaden prison past robots whose minds had been blown, but whose bodies remained untouched. Robots lay on the ground or sat on ledges. They collapsed forward, supporting each other in pyramids, they leaned back against walls. There was no movement, but there was a sense of motion about the scene, of activity interrupted. Wa-Ka-Mo-Do almost expected them to come to life at any moment, to resume their angry insurrection, to pick up the knives and clubs that had fallen from their lifeless hands and resume their attack on the upper city.

  It wouldn’t happen. The life had gone from their eyes. Sangrel, poor, twisted, abused Sangrel, was at last at peace, lit by the yellow summer sun.

  The only sound came from above, the plaintive bleating of animals in the copper market. What strange device had the humans used, to kill robots and leave organic life untouched?

  Just how powerful were they? Powerful enough to have written the Book of Robots? Undoubtedly.

  For a moment, just a moment, he had an understanding of the Emperor’s position. What else could the Emperor have done in the face of such force? What else could he have done but negotiated and bought a few months’ grace whilst he saved face and frantically sought some way of fighting this powerful foe?

  But then Wa-Ka-Mo-Do moved that heavy body and the searing agony of current shorted across his back, and he was lost in pain once more.

  It took him all morning to drag himself
up to the Copper Market, pushing aside fallen bodies, crunching on the glass and broken tiles that littered the streets. He found the organic animals, and, not knowing what else to do, he unlocked their cages. He watched as the great beasts walked out amongst the fallen bodies, blowing hard from their noses, nudging at the metal remains of their keepers.

  Wa-Ka-Mo-Do released all the creatures he could find, a heavy fatigue building within him; then he stopped, exhausted. It took so long to build up the lifeforce to move this leaden body, and then it was expended in so little time. He looked around the broken market place as he rested; saw the stalls that had collapsed when their owners had fallen onto them. Their wares were strewn on the floor, slicked in oil and grease. Animals clattered over scattered metal plates, they knocked over displays, skittering away at the sound of ringing bells dying on the ground behind them.

  He heard a noise and slowly turned around. Something metal ran from the market place.

  ‘Wait,’ he called, his voice heavy and badly tuned, but it was too late. Whoever it was had gone.

  So he wasn’t the only survivor.

  He saw the remains of a soldier, over by the wall. The mob must have cornered it, torn it apart. The blue wire of its mind was pulled out and draped across the cobbled stones. Beside it, a child, a young boy, barely four years old judging by the size of the body he had built himself. His head was crushed, the wire exposed and deformed.

  What had happened here, before the human bomb had fallen? Had there been a riot, the child crushed, the mob extracting vengeance upon the soldier?

  Whatever it was, the two deaths weren’t the responsibility of the humans. They weren’t the responsibility of the Emperor. He, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, had been in charge of the city. It was he who had failed utterly not only in his duty, but also in his mutiny. Despite his actions, his troops had still died, the people of Sangrel had still died.

  Why couldn’t the humans’ weapon have killed him too? What was it that had protected him? Had the excess of metal in this body shielded his mind?

  He contemplated walking to the very top of the city and flinging himself from the highest place. If that didn’t shatter his mind, then he would walk back to the top and try again, and again and again until his body was broken.

  That was when he remembered. There was still one to whom he was beholden, one who still sought his help. He remembered the message from Jai-Lyn, hidden from him all that time in the radio room.

  Wa-Ka-Mo-Do still had one last chance to redeem himself. He had failed everyone else. Maybe it was not too late to save Jai-Lyn.

  He had set out immediately for Ka, passing from Sangrel and into the lands beyond, walking for mile after agonizing mile in that heavy body that sunk to the ankles in anything less than the firmest ground. He heard a low, static-filled hum and he realized it was his own voice; the agony he felt was leaking out through his speaker. With an heroic effort he stilled it and went on walking, pulling his feet, covered in clods of mud, from the soft earth, passing through the fields the animals had planted.

  After a while he had the sense that he was being watched, and he turned this way and that, too slow in that leaden body, seeking other signs of life. How many other robots had survived the attack?

  Eventually he found himself on a white stone path, kicking up dust as he made his way to the coast. He saw smoke coming from a nearby forge, saw robots emerging from the doorway. They beckoned to him, but he kept on walking: outcast, pariah, unfit for the company of others. His shame and sense of failure glowed within him all the stronger for meeting company.

  He saw the fire on the horizon after the third day. Ka was burning, he knew it. Still he walked on.

  Other robots walked the road.

  ‘What news from Sangrel?’ called one, gazing in horror at Wa-Ka-Mo-Do’s heavy body.

  Wa-Ka-Mo-Do said nothing, he just kept on walking, still too ashamed to speak.

  ‘Hey! What did they do to you? Let me help!’

  ‘I don’t deserve it.’

  Slowly, he limped on.

  That day he turned aside from the white stone road to avoid the other robots that walked it, and he made his way across the land, heading directly for the burning city and its black column of smoke.

  The green hills gave way to flatter, marshy ground. To his right he saw the road, graceful white bridges arcing over the ditches and swamps. He ignored them, moving deeper and deeper into the saltwater-soaked land that bordered Ka. The sun burned red as it set, mirroring the flames of the city; it reflected in patches from the land, it stained the sky the colour of dull iron.

  He passed into the swamp, and he sought out the rills of rock that lined the marshy bed, following the stone paths, the green water up to his waist, sometimes up to his neck. Occasionally he walked underwater, his vision a green blur, and the slippery shapes of organic life whipped around him all the time. He would emerge onto a soft bank and look ahead to see the city seemingly no closer, the despair within him no less, the pain as intense as ever.

  Still he marched on.

  Susan

  Susan stood in the Marshalling Office. Through the window she could see the silver lines that spread out across the world, converging upon her. A line of wagons was passing beneath her right now and she found her eyes drawn to it, the regular flick, flick as the end of one wagon passed by and another rolled on.

  The Marshalling Officer didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Well,’ he said, looking down once more at the piece of foil, ‘this is the service you want, but it’s not going to do you any good. It doesn’t run any more.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Susan, frustrated. Another train rumbled by underneath, this time heading into the yards.

  ‘Oooh, well, it was a special service, see? Only ran for about a month, straight into the humans’ compound. They’re not accepting direct services at the moment.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The Marshalling Officer laughed. He was painted a pale green, not quite the same as the computers of the Centre City.

  ‘Why not? Susan, you’re not on official business are you?’

  ‘Yes I am, I told you-’

  ‘Susan, it’s okay! I don’t care, see? All I want to do is to ensure that Artemis works. The way I do that is by making sure the railways run smoothly.’

  ‘Listen…’

  ‘Gresley.’

  ‘Listen, Gresley, the robot in question used to work in Making Room 14. She has information-’

  ‘Susan, I really don’t care. Half the information on this continent flows through here. I know what’s really going on. I know that Kavan is out there on the plain somewhere, building an army. I know that he is getting ready to attack this city again, and I know that he is coming closer. He might even be here by now. Troops ride in and out on these trains all the time. If I were Kavan I would have simply hopped on board one of them.’

  ‘Yes but-’

  ‘No, Susan, listen to me. I know that the robots in this city are growing more and more unhappy about the way Sandale and the rest have made an alliance with what are no more than a bunch of animals. I know that unrest is growing all the time. They say that we are receiving metal from the humans in return for land, but I’ve examined the lading bills and I know that we’re giving away more than we’re receiving.’

  ‘And you think this is wrong?’ said Susan, eagerly.

  ‘Susan, you misunderstand! I don’t care!’

  The pale-green robot sat down on a seat by the metal desk that overlooked the yard and spread the foil out before him.

  ‘I keep trying to explain, I don’t run this city. I don’t make decisions about which lands we should conquer, or about where we build our forges, see? My mind wasn’t twisted to do that. What I do is make sure that the goods on the railways are picked up, and that they are deposited at their destination. If anything passes beneath this gantry, then it is my business to know about it. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  �
�Good. Then understand this, Susan. I don’t care who you are, I don’t care if you work for Kavan or Sandale or Spoole. I don’t even care if you’re in this for yourself. In a few weeks’ time such things will probably all be irrelevant anyway!’

  ‘Yes, so-’

  ‘So, ask me anything you like, and I will be delighted to answer!’

  At that Gresley sat back in his seat and smiled.

  ‘This state has rust in the mind,’ said Susan.

  ‘It may well do,’ said Gresley, ‘but as long as the railways run properly, I am a happy robot.’

  Susan took the piece of foil from the desk.

  ‘My friend was taken into the human compound on this service,’ she said. ‘I want to follow her in there.’

  ‘There we are!’ said Gresley. ‘Why didn’t you say that at the start?’

  He leaped to his feet and walked to the other side of the room, where he examined a piece of foil pinned to the wall.

  ‘Now,’ he said, examining it carefully. ‘As I said, there are no direct services to the human compound planned. However, there are a number of troop trains being prepared for a direct attack on the compound.’

  ‘They’re going to attack the humans?’ said Susan, in astonishment.

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Gresley, ‘but you can’t just call up a train from thin air. These things have to be prepared. Someone is obviously planning ahead.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could be Spoole, it could be the Generals. It could even be Kavan. Like I said, he may be in the city already.’

  He pulled a sheet of foil from a book and scribbled something on it with a stylus.

  ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Line 4 point 16 point 3. The lines are numbered from the right. That’s line four down there, the one with the ore hoppers passing by at the moment.’

  Susan looked down at the yellow stone-filled hoppers that rumbled by beneath them.

  ‘Just follow it up and count the branches. You should be able to join the train, dressed like that. I’m sure another infantryrobot would always be welcome.’