Omha abides, p.15
Omha Abides, page 15
One of the octopus-like metal things stirred. “Most of us are on Minimum Survival to conserve energy.”
One Point One shot a query to Chrono; learned that the year was 3493. “Good Heavens”, a personality-component whispered somewhere, ghostlike. One Point One felt the tiny DC pulsations that corresponded to amusement. Six hundred years of sleep might seem long to a Human-Personality-Residue. To One Point One, it was just another statistic. He tested out his sensors (including many innovations that had not been devised by his original builders), letting Monitor—it was One Point Seven on duty, he noted—wait. A little anxiety-feedback, he thought, might teach One Point Seven not to jerk his superior so rudely out of sleep. “Repairbots: Directly under my Section J-29 is some earthquake damage.”
“We are aware of it. Temporary shoring was installed fifty-three years ago.”
“Well, get at it and make a nice smooth patch on the concrete, and pump high-density grout into the cavity. Energy expenditure is authorized.”
“We will do it at once.”
Deliberately, One Point One let his attention drift back to Monitor. “Now, Impatient One. What is it?”
Monitor said relievedly, “There is an important matter, though not an emergency. I thought it best not to feed it to you until you’d had a chance to adjust to being awake again.”
“So; I’m adjusted.” One Point One allowed himself a smug moment. His subordinates treated him with more awe than the chain of command actually required. They were only machines; estimable in their abilities, but machines. He—with his array of Personality-Transcriptions—was undoubtedly a little more.
He let Monitor’s information flow into him. After a few milliseconds he abruptly went into high gear. Relays clacked; lights flashed on in a dozen deep caverns that had lain dark for centuries. Special personality-banks hummed with test currents; joined the network; seemed to whisper in a chorus of querulous voices.
“Full Alert!” One Point One snapped, “Full Conference!”
He waited, suppressing feedback, while a myriad of tiny spiderbots swarmed about long-unused banks, testing, replacing a few components that had gone dead. Though he did not apologize to Monitor, he admitted to himself that Monitor had used good judgment. This thing would have been far too ampere-producing to foist upon him fresh from slumber and unadjusted.
It was minutes before everybody tested GO. Then he activated circuits to cut in various voice-boxes. A warning-current suddenly circled in his interior: the audio-system must be retested to make sure no sound could carry to the surface nor into any new rock-faults or newly-drilled wells. Five more minutes. Finally the warning-current ceased.
“This is One Point One.” His mechanical voice echoed in more than sixty local chambers, deep in bedrock. “I am conducting this conference in audible English because many Personality-Transcripts will participate, and we are conscious of the effects of semantics.” He paused. “The following have just been acquired by Rocky Mountain outpost: one Mark 17 DB Scanner which is almost certainly the one which—as Monitor has noted in General Memory-log—had apparently fallen into alien hands. And one Gaddyl device, obviously capable of being fed high amperage, which is very probably a small version of the Distorter.”
An utter chaos of currents assaulted One Point One. He clamped them to bearability; hushed, for a moment, the audio-speakers. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! And lady. Please! One at a time. General M, you are senior.”
A slightly raspy, emotion-keyed voice whispered, “I have no vote since I am not a PT but only a mock-up after death. But I say, throw every erg of our technological resources into an immediate study. Spare no expenditure! Master this Distorter—probe every secret that lurks in it! Then equip our missiles to counteract it, and attack! Attack! Attack!”
One Point One suppressed a sigh. “Thank you, General M. General E?
This was a full PT, and contained far more of the donor’s actual personality. “Well, certainly we should begin the study, not neglecting, of course, all necessary safeguards. But we should do nothing hasty. Would an all-out study jeopardize our security?”
One Point One said, “The earlier stages carry no danger. Later, possibly, if empirical tests become necessary, we would have to compute the risks.”
General E’s circuits hummed for a few milliseconds. “Can an estimate be made now of the probable elapsed time of the study? And of the energy-and-materials expenditure?”
One Point One, of course, had already considered those things. “Probable study time cannot be estimated until we have some grasp of the Distorter’s nature. Absolute minimum would be eighty hours. Possible maximum, infinity. So far as energy and materials go, I’ve estimated those as equal to one-twentieth our regular expenditure for maintenance. There is no worry there.”
General E asked, “Assuming we could solve and duplicate the Distorter quickly, or build some countermeasure, do we have a significant number of operative missiles left and would there be any difficulty in modifying them? And are they suitably dispersed?”
“There has been,” One Point One said, “no significant change since the most recent survey fed into your memory-banks. That is, we are within ninety per cent of the readiness we had just following the capitulation of Earth.”
There was a murmur from the female Transcript. “Yes, Madam L,” One Point One said, “full expenditure of our warheads would certainly cause widespread death and suffering.” He recognized another voice. “General O?”
General O seldom concerned himself with tactics. “There is still a question in my mind regarding the matter of possible enemy reinforcement. At the time of the conquest, there were forty-three known Translocation Centers in orbit around Sol. We know that some of those were shifted elsewhere after the Gaddyl victory. Do we know whether any remain at this moment? And how many Center’s have they on Earth now? The last estimate I have is minimum, one; maximum, one thousand. Can’t we do better than that?”
“We can. We even have a probability figure now: point nine nine two that all the attack centers were sent elsewhere. And a probable number of centers now on Earth: one point six three.”
General O snorted. “Does that mean they have one, or do they have two?”
One Point One felt amusement-feedback. “You may have your choice, General. We know of one, in what used to be the State of Arizona. Unfortunately we have no sensors overseas, and it has long been policy not to send spy-apparatus via air or water. We only speculate that, for logistic reasons, they might have another at the antipodes. That speculation is reflected in the figure I quote.”
General O said with deep irony, “Thank you very much.”
A Transcript designated “Admiral J” put in, “This is out of my line, of course, but have any active human troop units been found? My last datum on that is negative.”
“There has been,” One Point One answered impatiently, “no detected human action against the Gaddyl that can be classed as resistance or rebellion. There are constantly incidents, of course, but these must be considered civil crimes. About fifty years after the conquest, the last group of United States infantrymen ambushed a small squad of Gaddyl security troops and killed them. They themselves were overtaken and destroyed within an hour. All of them, of course, were old men. No, Admiral, there is no organized resistance. The children don’t even play soldier any more. Or sailor.”
There were more questions, and more opinions. But before long it became clear that (aside from the personality-mock-up of General M) there was no significant will. And there were no ideas worth analysis.
One Point One let them think the discussion was continuing, but gradually, regretfully, gently, he damped out the emotions in them; put them back to sleep; probed into their memory-banks and excised all recollection of this conference. It could all be fed back, of course, if that became advisable—but meanwhile they must be restored to their pristine conditions, lest, under the impact of this new experience and information, their personalities change.
Before he turned off the last audio speakers, a sound very much like a sigh came through. It was his own sigh. The results of such a conference were always predictable. And even if, sometime, some definite will, some purpose—such as General M might show—were to emerge, he, on analysis, would probably have to override it. He held the conferences because he was basically programmed to do so—his long-dead builders had done what they could to assure human, not machine, decisions. But he always hoped. Each time, there was a trickle of anxiety-feedback in him, a hope—that was the only word for it—that the taped human personalities would this time come up with a—well, with an “inspiration.”
That hopeful feeling, he guessed, could be blamed on whatever of him was other-than-machine.
Now, he let that part of him seek its own lurking-circuits while he addressed his purely electronic-and-mechanical subordinates: “To a high probability, the device we are now studying is a Distorter. To a fair probability, we can solve it quickly. To a fair probability, we could modify most of our operative missiles to counteract the enemy defense.
“The regaining of our own spy device is of course fortunate, but that in itself is reason to reassess our security. We can not rely on fortune. Obviously, we have been indiscreet—that is, we have miscalculated the risks.
“Beginning at once, but with utmost caution, we will withdraw a large part of our sensory apparatus from the surface. Especially near Gaddyl habitations and installations, we will cease, for the time, all spying.
“Precisely because we have this extremely important device to study, we must be careful. Short-range objectives such as watching the situation on the surface must be subordinated to security.
“I wish to state this another way, for my own benefit: the present suffering of humans must not lead us risk in any way our long-range objective, which is the eventual retaking of the planet. If humans are hunted for a generation, two generations, ten—if the race is reduced to the status of jungle beasts—that is not important! So long as breeding-stock remains, the race can regenerate.”
Before he broke the circuits, he made a little joke which he knew would not be understood: “We are going underground.”
CHAPTER XXI: INVITATION TO FOLLY
Murno sat bundled in a bison-hide blanket, his back against a pine-trunk and stared pensively down the rocky open slope toward a small creek. The slope looked no less harsh by moonlight. On the way east, he recalled, he’d thought this a singularly unattractive spot. Now, he appreciated it—Gaddyl wouldn’t come here.
The dozen and more men snoring behind him, under the few scraggly trees, were Orse from various clans between the Rockies and this lesser range. Not one of them had ever been this far west, which made him the guide. He grinned to himself at the thought. How long was it since he’d led someone named Klayr, and three youngsters, out of a fertile valley just over a ridge from a Fiefdom? Two months? He realized with sudden horror that he could no longer visualize Klayr clearly. When he tried, other things got in the way—the faces of Gaddyl he’d killed, of men who’d been killed at his side.
The Gaddyl radio he carried was murmuring something. He snuggled it against his ear; heard a guide somewhere reporting a campfire. Let them swoop down on it—they’d find no Wild Folk around it, unless those were bait. Free humans were becoming wary game.
One of the tethered horses whickered softly. He heard Pel speak to it quietly. The young Burnie had certainly become a good man, and fast. Not the most cheerful company, but reliable.
The horse whickered again, louder. This time, an answering whinny came from the thicket along the creek. Murno threw off the robe, felt about for his bow and for the Gaddyl rifle he carried nowadays. He saw Pel step into the moonlight and walk slowly down-slope. That was correct; to show himself while the rest of the group remained hidden. He heard the men behind him tossing off their blankets and getting to their feet. One of them went to the horses.
A mounted man left the creek and rode slowly to meet Pel. There was a brief conversation, then Pel turned and called out, “They’re scouts. Their clan-leader’s name is Sander.”
Murno called, “Bring them up. I know the clan.”
Four horsemen altogether rode up; dismounted at his invitation. He said, “Aren’t you scouting a little out of your territory? I thought your clan was settled farther north.”
The spokesman said, “We’re combining rounds with eight or nine other clans now. We’re on the watch for anyone traveling west.”
Murno asked, “Why?”
“Because a top man called Larkan wants to see them.”
Larkan—with the beginning of a beard, and looking gaunter and older—eyed Murno. “So you made it. What became of my men?”
“Parks and one other got killed. Dal and the rest went on east of the Rockies. From what we heard, they could go a long way and not run out of clans.”
Larkan grunted. “I hope they didn’t try. Murno, I’ve learned one thing—it’s nonsense to think about coordinating defense over any distance. We just can’t communicate fast enough. Not long after you left, a party of twelve Gaddyl killed fourteen people of a clan north of us, then camped at a small lake. I had a messenger there to offer an alliance, and he joined an attack on the Gaddyl camp. He got himself killed, which demonstrated his sincerity. But it was four days before we even got the word!”
Murno nodded. “Any combined attack would have to be planned ahead, and it would have to be against a fixed target. About all we can do is exchange whatever information we can; share ideas and tactics. And maybe food and shelter when they’re needed.” He stared idly toward the horses, tethered among the pines, feeding hungrily on grass that had been cut and brought to them. “I’ve been thinking, more or less vaguely … After I make sure my family’s safe, I may try to organize a roving band to hit the Gaddyl wherever they hunt too enthusiastically.” He paused for a minute. “I haven’t talked much about some of the mutants I’ve met, but they’ve got abilities you and I can’t match. The Big Ears, for instance—I think they could see clearly by starlight alone. And even when they can’t see, they can hear things a cat can’t.”
Larkan said, “I’m way ahead of you. We’ve got over four dozen of them with us as refugees, and I’ve persuaded some of them to ride horses. A few nights ago a couple went out with us on a deer hunt. They can sneak right up on a deer in the dark and touch it! The trouble is, they won’t kill anything. They have to be practically starved before they’ll even eat meat!”
Murno said, “Refugees?”
Larkan nodded grimly. “The whole north half of the Grove is gone. The Gaddyl cut a line across the middle, then started a slow drive, burning as they went. There was an awful smoke and an awful stink for days. The Grove didn’t burn very well, and they were using heavy beamers.” Larkan sat silent for a minute, right hand idly fingering a Gaddyl rifle across his lap. “You should have seen the mess of day-blind animals and Big Ears that came out! In the daytime, they could only stumble around blindly. The only reason anything got away was, there was just plain more than the Gaddyl could kill.”
Murno watched the clan leader’s face. Dare he ask if there’d been any blue-skinned mutants among the victims? He’d better not, yet. There was always the chance that the Gaddyl might capture and interrogate someone who’d heard a bit of gossip. Instead, he told Larkan, “The heavy beamers are just one of the things they can use against us if they have to. There’s a lot of stuff you’ve never seen.”
Larkan said, “No, but you have, and you can tell us what to expect. Look, Murno—I’m not stupid enough to think we can fight them with bows and arrows and the few guns we’ve already got. But, say they turn heavier stuff against us—those beamers, for instance. If I’d had a day or so to plan and prepare, I could have had an ambush ready in the Grove! We could have jumped them and grabbed some of those beamers! And with enough men, I could have overwhelmed them!” He leaned forward excitedly. “Stay with me, Murno! With your knowledge we can take them in a dozen ambushes! We can make ourselves into an army, with real weapons!”
For a moment, Larkan’s intensity swept Murno along. Then the intoxication passed. He said patiently, “You’re aiming at the wrong part of the animal. By making the hunting more difficult and more costly for the guests, you can minimize it. But what you’re talking about would be suicide. Suppose, just for instance, you could seize a real array of weapons—do you know what they’d do? They’d just bring in a few fighting-ships from off-planet. You’ve seen the ruins. Can’t you tell from them how the ancients must have fought? They had technology of their own, and real weapons. But they were crushed!”
For a moment Larkan’s eyes blazed at Murno as if he were the enemy. Then the Orse leader grinned coldly. “They couldn’t bring in any fighting ships, though, could they, if we knocked out Ingress before they knew what was happening?” He got to his feet. “You’re bound and determined to go look after your family, and I can’t blame you for that. But promise me one thing—that as soon as you can, you’ll come back. I won’t do anything in the meantime to spill the stew, but I’ll be making preparations. And you be thinking!”
Murno, a little dazed, stared at him. Finally he said, “All right, Larkan. I’ll come back if I can, and I’ll be thinking. But I don’t think my opinion will change.”
CHAPTER XXII: OORY GOES FISHING
Oory let his small aircar settle to the surface of the bay; sat listening to the familiar “slap-slap-slap” of small waves against the hull. He slid back the canopy. The bay was sparkling-blue, clean, inviting. But he wasn’t here to swim.
