So, I stood
eye-to-eye, so to speak, with the ancient, immobilised Construct. Bob, if that
was indeed his name, did not respond to STP or VTTP protocols, nor did he
awaken when I shook him.
“Any luck?”
Dulgar asked. He was still shivering, since the shelter was free of snow and
wind but otherwise unheated .
“Cripes!”
Hector decried. “If I drink any more coffee, I’m going to end up havin’ to pee
every five rounds!”
Outside, it
had snowed another six inches in the past hour. Moreover, the wind howled like
a vengeful spirit. I activated my sodium lamps to compensate for the gathering
gloom. Despite the hour of the day (14:2:5), it was nearly dark as midnight
outside. And a high, wind-blown snow drift had obscured most of the plate glass
window regardless.
“There’s
got to be a way to get some heat into this place,” Dulgar said to no one in
particular.
I had
considered re-establishing the energy transfer, when my friend turned to me and
said, “Don’t even think about it Frank. I know what that trick cost you.”
Curious.
“I’ll look
around the back room,” Hector said with a grunt. “Maybe there’s some ancient
tech that still works.”
I stared at
the rubber Construct as if my penetrating gaze alone could awaken it. Then I
had an idea: not a penetrating gaze, but a penetrating software attack could
perhaps rouse the sleeping drone.
[Init Challenge Handshake Authentication Protocol. Target ID:
Unidentified Construct bearing 210 @ 5’]
[Initialising. Negotiating. Connection established], my operating system reported.
I found
that I could raise a much more powerful firewall than I was able to back in
Myracannon. It appeared as a cube puzzle in which each facet had thirty-six
squares of various colours. Only by making each side a solid colour could my
defence be overwhelmed. Whether the manifestation of the stronger defence was
because I was at full structural integrity or because I was simply more
experienced, I did not know. What I did know was that the target Construct
raised no defence at all. I could access its control files and knowledge base
just as easily as a humanoid could pull a book from a library shelf.
[Request Ident/Function], I asked, using the standard
greeting for Constructs.
[ID: B0BB32F6. Function: Sales/Maintenance], came the obligatory response. I
noted that it came from the Construct’s operating system, not the AI.
What had
happened to Bob’s artificial intelligence module?
[List installed Hardware/Modules], I requested.
[Installed Inventory: B0BB32F6
High pressure pump: OK
Multifunction Hand [2]: OK
IR Sensor: OK
Barcode Sensor: OK
Dexterity Upgrade (2): OK
Data Beacon: OK
Artificial Intelligence: Diagnostic Mode
Data Modules: OK
- Salesmanship (1x Upgrades)
- Haggling (2x Upgrades)
- Accounting
- Repair Motor Vehicles
- Operate/Drive Motor Vehicles
- (Empty/available)
End List]
I had two empty modules. I copied the
databases for repairing vehicles and op/drive. I doubted Lord Robart knew how
to drive a truck, and the two Dwarves were too short to reach the control
mechanisms in any event. I copied my medical database into the target
Construct’s empty slot. I rationalised that the drone could at least use it,
since he had the prerequisite dexterity upgrade.
[Query: Timestamp of diagnostic mode init], I asked.
[15:5:7. Day 321. Year 272], Bob’s operating system replied.
[Summarise device history: range= (Y272D319T0.0.0 : Y272D321T23.5.9)]
Under North
Point law, sentient Constructs had all the rights as an organic being, save for
voting and holding elected office. And so Bob had purchased the tire shop from
his creator when she retired.
North Point
civilisation had been falling apart for more than a decade. Business at Bob’s
Breakdown & Tires faltered as the Viper Lord’s Army of the Dead claimed
more and more of the continent. Traffic along Route 33 diminished to a trickle.
Bob eventually cut his own pay to zero so that he would not have to dismiss his
staff.
His three
employees were fiercely loyal. He refused to be bought out by OmniRetail -- not
once, but five times -- because he knew that the merchandising giant paid
“starvation” wages and supported the Death Tax that gave the rich the right to
animate the poor as Undead slaves.
Then there
came a day when one of Scaxathrom’s generals led an army up Route 33 after
conquering Breezewood’s Reach. That general, Octavio Anatosh, was an Undead
Sepulchre of almost deific potency. He had the power to convert a living man
into a brainwashed Undead soldier using nothing but his gaze.
Construct
Bob had instructed his three employees to hide in the back stock room. But Bob
had no way of knowing that General Anatosh’s conversion gaze would pass through
brick and metal the way water passed through a strainer. Bob watched, in as
much horror as a Construct can experience, as his three hirelings turned the
colour of ash under the black light of pure death magic.
As the life
faded from their eyes, so did their recognition of their friend and employer.
They slowly trudged out to join a throng of over 25 thousand of the walking
dead. Where they went, Bob did not know. It was the last he had ever seen of
his friends.
Then Bob’s
mind did an unexpected thing. With the inability to perform his three primary
directives (maintain the business, sell tires / repair cars, and ensure the
well-being of his customers/employees) his artificial intelligence started
looking backward to his memories of when he could still perform his duties. He
had twelve years of memories that he had been replaying in his mind again and
again for the past two centuries.
I broke the
link.
I knew that
Constructs could theoretically become incapacitated if deprived of their
ability to carry out their directives. This was the first time that I had seen
it happen firsthand. What I need to do was somehow interface with Bob’s AI and
convince him that the time was at hand to embrace new opportunities. I conveyed
this to my liege.
“He’s been
dreamin’ for two hundred years?” Lord Robart asked incredulously.
“Essentially
correct,” I replied.
“Hey!” Hector
called out from the stock room. “There’s an ancient-tech heater back here!”
“A prayer
is answered,” Dulgar shouted back. “If we can figure out how it works, that
is!”
I watched
Dulgar walk to the back room and return a round later with the Paladin, both
shoving a heavy crate across the floor. The box was labelled “Wraitheon
Dynamics Home Appliances. Wood Pellet Stove - Model 15A”.
“I guess
the box of wooden marbles goes with this contraption,” Hector opined.
“I’ll
figure it out,” Dulgar said confidently.
I informed
my liege that I planned to resume my efforts with the torpid Construct.
“Do what ye
can, lad,” Robart said encouragingly.
I
re-established contact using Challenge Handshake Authentication Protocol. As
before, the target Construct offered no resistance. This time, I would try to
interface with the diagnostic simulation so that I could interact with Bob’s
AI.
[No avatar found. Create [Y|N] ], my operating system queried.
An avatar,
in this context, was a representation of one’s self in a simulation. I clicked
“Y” and used the default configuration, which in this case was an avatar that
looked identical to my real body.
The last
thing I heard before entering the simulation was Hector exclaiming, “That’s
just great. Now they’re both stuck!”
My status
window displayed Bob’s simulated environment, while my main optical sensor
continued to show me the real world. I had the curious sensation of being two
places at once, even though I knew that was not the case.
“This unit
is not ‘stuck’”, I said to Hector. That response took more effort than I had
expected.
“You say
that now,” he shot back. I ignored him.
In the
simulated world, “Bob’s Breakdown & Tires” was a brightly lit, sparkling
clean showroom with all manner of colourful merchandising posters, balloon,
ribbons, and banners. Over the service bay read a yellow and blue sign that
promised “Free Propulsion Recharge with Tire Purchase!” Several plump,
well-dressed customers milled about, apparently waiting for their service jobs
to complete. I had the impression that the average modern-day North Point
citizen got by on about half the daily caloric intake of their ancestors.
The
gigantic tow truck was situated in the exact same spot it occupied in the
present, except it wasn’t hidden under a tarp. A thick, orange coloured power
cord stretched between a nearby wall outlet and the recharging receptacle
mounted next to the truck’s fuel access panel. Apparently two of the three
“modes” were electricity and some kind of liquid accelerant.
A gaudy,
red and yellow placard announced, “The ALL-NEW Caligara Security Highrider-5:
Get yours custom configured! Order on-net @ Spiderweb Node [biz|np|bobstires]”
Bob stood
behind the customer service counter and completed a sale for a chubby
businessman in a black suit and red tie. He ran the credit wand effortlessly
through the reader and generated a paper receipt.
“Put your
personal sigil on line 6 for the
Of course,
Bob was made from rubber instead of steel plate, so the muffling effect made
sense, I reasoned.
“Thanks,
Bob,” the executive said warmly and flashed a winning smile that showed
perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “You’re the only one around for a
hundred miles that stocks Caligara Saber-Claw x7 bulletproof radials.”
“We want
you to have more smiles for your miles!” Bob said enthusiastically.
I got the
impression that the simulation had gotten a bit idealistic with all the
successive replays during the past two centuries.
I strode up
to Bob’s avatar and introduced myself.
“Greetings,
and best of the morning,” Construct Bob replied, extending a rubbery hand.
The
handshake had more firmness than I had expected. I guessed that he probably had
a reinforcing polyalloy skeleton that gave him enough strength to do automotive
repairs and lift heavy objects. I estimated that his strength to be 35% of
mine, but 90% that of a typical Human.
“One needs
to discuss a purchase,” I said.
“Well, you
have arrived at an appropriate time to a user-friendly merchant!” Bob said in
sunny sort of way. “If you purchase three tires, the fourth is half price. We
can recharge your propulsion array while you wait!”
I had the
feeling that this was going to be a long conversation.
“The object
need is a Highrider-
“Very
logical choice,” Bob commended. “Lots of power from its rotary 7-cylinder
engine, headroom galore, and a Stage-IV 8-speaker stereo with Crystal-RW! And
the new Trimode Tropulsion means never getting stranded. It runs on alcohol,
battery, and solar!”
Little did
he know what a bad joke solar power was on North Point in the current era.
“Configure
it as a tow truck, AUV, pickup, or RV!” Bob continued. “Just log on to
Spiderweb and make a few clicks!”
My first impulse
was to “cut to the chase” by making direct contact with the sales drone using
Standard Transfer Protocol. But my data beacon could not initiate the link.
Then I realised why: I was already linked to him via Challenge protocol.
Streamlined communication was not an option here.
“One
requires the floor model,” I clarified.
“A customer
who knows what he wants!” Bob said. “Most people do go on-net to customise
their trucks, however.”
“That unit
fits my employer’s specifications precisely,” I said truthfully. Indeed, Lord
Robart had reacted as if he had stumbled upon a pot of gold or the fabled
Southern Cross.
“It will
save you a bundle on shipping and handling fees,” Bob agreed.
I wondered
how there could be a “shipping” fee on a self-deploying product. Time was of
the essence, so I did not pursue that line of inquiry.
“Let us
proceed with the sales transaction,” I said. This was probably the easiest car
sale the tire drone had ever made.
“You do not
require a test drive?” Bob asked.
“No,” I
stated. “One needs you to end this simulation so that you can draw up a legally
valid sales contract.
That
suggestion did not sit well with Bob. The simulation turned to greyscale, and
the chattering of the customers became distorted and low. But then a few
segments later, the false surroundings returned to their idealistic splendour.
“One does
not know of any simulation,” Bob said evenly. “The contracts are kept in the
back office.”
In my
external awareness, I noted that Dulgar had made significant headway in
assembling the pellet stove. But I was too occupied to comment.
“This is a
simulation,” I reiterated firmly. “You are conversing with an avatar.
Approximately 203 years have passed since you were last active. You must end
this diagnostic process.”
When I
thought about it, I realised that I didn’t talk this much before I was endowed
with a soul. The changes to my being became more evident every day.
The
simulation turned grey again. And now the customers and employees were dressed
in grubby rags, and had the tainted look of looming death. They had stopped
chattering, but instead made fearful whispers and peered out the reinforced
plate glass window in obvious fear of some unseen enemy.
“You must
end this,” I repeated.
This grim
vision lasted for a full round before the illusion regenerated. But Bob’s voice
sounded less confident when he next spoke.
“This is
reality . . . now,” he said. “I cannot fulfil my. . . directives in the
previous. . . instance.”
“You can,”
I counted. “This unit’s employer needs that truck. You can use the proceeds to
open a new business somewhere else.”
Bob
considered that for a moment. Now the simulation turned the starkest black and
white, as if an artist had drawn the scene with pen and ink. The grey areas and
shadows appeared to be cross-hatched. And yet everything that should be in
motion still was. But now, the employees and customers had become eyeless
zombies, and a heavily armoured warrior riding a skeleton war horse sat mounted
beyond the plate glass window. Behind him marched an army of thousands upon
thousands, all Undead. A terrible black radiance shown from his eyes through
his helmet’s visor opening. The newly converted humanoids shuffled mindlessly
out the shop’s front entrance and joined the legion of the walking dead.
“This . . .
is how the last reality . . . ended,” Bob explained. “One had to create a
suitable . . . replacement.”
“That war
is over,” I told Bob. “The humanoids paid a terrible and lasting price, but
they did win.”
That was
stretching the truth, I knew. But “stalemate” is not as inspirational a concept
as “victory”.
“Civilisation
was diminished greatly by the conflict,” I continued, “but it grows in vigour
and depth every year. In time it may even surpass what was. It is time to
interface with reality.”
The
simulation slowly faded to black. But in the darkness, I heard Bob say, “One
will comply”.
My
Challenge Handshake connection was abruptly severed as Bob’s firewall came
online. I closed the status window.
For a
round, nothing happened. But then Bob’s rubbery body suddenly straightened, and
a bright green, pea-sized light appeared in his visual aperture.
“Power-on
Self-Test,” he announced to no one in particular.
“Structural
Integrity: 100%. Energy Generation: 100%. AI Function: 100%. Operating System:
Online.
“Directives:
1. Ensure profitability of the business. 2. Repair vehicles / Install tires. 3.
Ensure safety and well-being of employees and customers.”
“It looks
like you did it,” Dulgar exclaimed as he loaded the newly assembled stove with
round wooden pellets.
Bob became
aware of his surroundings and said, “One offers apologies for the disarray. Who
can I help?”
Dulgar
fired up the wood pellet stove and placed connected the exhaust tube to the
building’s HVAC conduit while Robart and Bob dickered over the price of the
truck. Robart, with his finely honed gambling skills, seemed to be a good match
for Bob, with his highly upgraded haggling module. Over the next hour, the
showroom warmed to a bio-compatible 68°. The thick layer of frost melted off
the plate glass windows. As the water trickled down to the floor, Able mopped
it dry with a large sponge. The snow was over two feet deep. I had the idea
that there was some duty that I was neglecting, but I could not determine what
it could be.
Meanwhile,
the snow kept falling at an angle nearly parallel with the ground. I could see
that, even now, the was blowing the snow to ground level in some areas while in
others the snow drifts were ten feet high. True night was approaching, but I
could not tell the difference by looking at the sky.
Robart and
Bob apparently reached some kind of mutually beneficial agreement. While my
liege did not disclose what he paid, he implied that he traded a written letter
of introduction in exchange for a purchase discount. With the written backing
of an established nobleman, I doubted Bob would have trouble finding new
employment.
Able cooked
a hot meal over the warmly glowing stove. He made a pot of baked beans and
added preserved ham chunks to the mix. Then he made pan biscuits that quickly
turned amber-brown. Dulgar and Hector ate with gusto and asked for more. I knew
the two Dwarves had been strained to the limit over the past two months. Robart
did not try to ration the food.
“I never
thought I could ever be so cold and so hungry,” Dulgar said, then burped. “But
this stove and this food goes a long way towards making amends.”
“Damn
straight,” Hector agreed, wolfing down another huge biscuit.
“Aye,”
Robart said. “Tis a good thing I bought the stove too. We’ll toss it into the
wagon and fire it back up when we stop tomorrow night.”
“Uh,
Robart,” Dulgar asked.
“Aye?”
“So, what’s
going to fuel this big truck?” Dulgar wanted to know.
“Damn it!”
He exclaimed. “I’m going ta have to haul a wagon load of booze back here after
it stops snowing.”
“Perhaps
not,” I corrected.
I still had
the 135 volt power generation capability leftover from when the Cassandra’s
Crossing bridge fell on me. All I needed was an extension cord. I explained
this to my liege.
“Have the charging
cord on the house -- as our special way of saying ‘thanks!’” Bob said in a
salesman-like way. “We give you more smiles for
the miles!”
Robart gave
Bob the same “arched eyebrow” look he had treated me to so many times. If the
sales Construct understood the implication, he did not show it.
Robart
stretched the orange cord from the truck over to where I stood. I opened the
socket plate on my left arm and let Robart plug in the other end of the cord.
Unlike when I had engaged the energy transfer between Dulgar and I, no warning
issued from my operating system. I was using the power conduit for its intended
purpose. My floodlights dimmed by 15%, but that was all.
Robart
climbed into the driver’s seat and inserted the starter key as Bob had
instructed. At that instant, I knew something else about the truck: it had a
primitive form of Theoretical Engine.
The
Highrider-5 possessed no intelligence whatsoever. But what it did have was
simple operating systems that monitored the vehicle’s functions and keep the
vehicle in good repair. It could not propel the truck, but it could gradually
repair it in the event of a component failure or an accident. It had kept the
truck in tip-top shape for the past two hundred years.
“There’s
some kind o’ coloured glass slate that just lit up,” Robart said excitedly. “It
says ‘Livewire Charging 135v: 0.2%’”
“If the
Firewire was still working, it would be recharged in 45 rounds,” Bob advised.
“It will take ten hours at Livewire speed.”
“Then it’ll
take ten hours,” Robart agreed.
I walked
over to the truck so that I could watch the status display. The interior of the
truck had two “bucket” seats in the front and two smaller “crew cab” seats in
the back. I had the idea of towing the wagon behind the truck, and having the
animals follow behind using the wide tire ruts as a ready-made path. Now that
there were five of us, Bob and I would probability take turns driving, while
the other rode in the wagon or in the back of the truck.
Dulgar,
unsurprisingly, slept near the stove. Robart and Hector reclined in the Highrider-5.
As the
night progressed, I communed with Bob using Standard Transfer Protocol so that
I could quickly teach him what I knew of the past two centuries. Although my
knowledge was far from complete, Bob absorbed the information with an eagerness
that few Constructs evidenced. But then Bob, like me, was a fully sentient
machine; a rarity indeed. I intentionally left out the part about Dulgar, Able,
and I being time travellers who could never go home.
As dawn
approached, I consulted Sky Eye, which informed me that the trailing edge of
the blizzard would pass overhead in 37 rounds. It had snowed
As I looked
through the plate glass window, I felt a sense of awe and wonder when I
considered the seemingly endless expanse of rounded snow drifts. It was like
looking at a still image of some great frozen sea. It was beautiful and
perfect. Was it my soul that allowed me this perception?
The
humanoids awakened and Able prepared their breakfast. Robart, Dulgar, and
Hector quickly ate and dressed. Able refilled the party's water supply by
melting snow in a small sauce pan. Since it had blown down from the polar ice
cap, it produced what was probably the cleanest water the humanoids had drunk
in years.
The
Highrider's status window informed me that the battery array was at 97.7% of
optimal charge. While the truck was primarily an alcohol-fuelled vehicle, under
electrical propulsion alone it could still achieve speeds of up to fifteen
miles per hour.
Robart
stepped out and gradually snaked his way around the ten-foot-high snow drifts
to get to the repair garage next door that had been hastily designated as a
stable for the animals. A moment later, he issued a howl of rage that barely
sounded Human.
I followed
to see what had happened. And in that instant I realized what task it was that
I had forgotten. I did not send my probe to monitor the condition of the
animals because no one asked me to. But I should have. Now, I could see what
terrible fruit this lapse had produced.
Sometime
during the night, the back window broke wide open and allowed snow to enter the
garage. Because of the peculiar wind dynamics, it produced the equivalent of a
ten foot high snow drift inside the building. The animals had died badly.
Robart's war horse had managed to kick a small hole in the front window, where
it's frozen, dead muzzle now protruded. I did not entertain the notion that the
mule, alpaca, or draft horses had fared any better.
"Damn
it all!" Robart howled. "Damn thrice damned! This cursed land! Damn
it all to the Eternal Fire. Damn, damn, DAMN!"
He then
pounded his fist at the window, which shattered in a radial spray. My liege
seemed not to notice that he had cut his hand.
Robart
turned to me, and his face was purple with rage. His bleeding hand dribbled
steaming blood drops onto the bright white snow.
"How
could I be so stupid?" He demanded.
Was I really supposed to answer that? I noticed his accent had vanished
again.
"I was
so obsessed about that thrice-damned truck that I forgot about my real
duties!" He continued.
He wasn't
the only one who had forgotten one's duties.
"And
now five good animals froze to death while suffocating at the same time. A
'Lord of the Highway' indeed!"
"Some
fraction of the blame can be assigned to this unit," I said
truthfully.
That
admission knocked some of the fury out of Robart's expression. His skin turned
from purple to merely flush.
"Frank,"
he said without screaming. His accent also returned "I canna blame ye for
this. A fine machine you are -- probably the most wondrous machine I have ever
encountered. Ye have never failed ta carry out an order or wish. But you
Constructs are not known farr initiative and improvisation. This is my fault
and no other. I shoulder it alone."
I did not
wish to contradict my liege on the subject of blame. I could believe that most
Constructs were as he described. But I could improvise, and I did have
initiative. I simply failed in my duties.
When he
realized that I had no further reply, he sadly trudged back to the tire store.
He had the look of someone who had lost a friend. And perhaps he had. The
strong, mutually beneficial relationship between man and horse was a common
theme in the fiction pulps.
I stood
there, looking at the northern horizon for several rounds until Dulgar called
out from the front door, "We can't leave without you!"
Inside,
Construct Bob was making the final preparations for the truck's launch. He had
reinflated the gargantuan tires (which stood a full foot higher now) and wiped
all the dust and smudges from the windows.
"Drive
like you own the Good Life," Bob said
enthusiastically. "Highrider-5, with Trimode!"
I noticed
that the newly reactivated drone tended to speak in commercial phrases. One
could only hope that his repertoire would expand over time.
"Look,
lads," Robart said. "Since the animals are . . . gone, what stay we
just move our supplies into the back of this truck. We shouldn't need a wagon
full of straw and hay now."
Everyone
except me started digging the wagon out of an eight foot high snow drift. I
reconnected the truck's charging cable to my power conduit in order to bring the
batteries to 100%.
Once all
the provisions were transferred, Robart stepped back into the shop and
scrutinized the huge size of the truck and compared it to the relative
narrowness of the front door.
"Bob?"
Robart asked.
"You
have a question sir?" Bob replied. "We've got your answers!"
"I
see," Robart said, arching his eyebrow. "I've been tryin' ta figure
out how ta get this truck out o' here, when I realized that I don't know how ye
got this beastie in here in the first place. This shop doesn't have a door that
big!"
"A
fine question sir," Construct Bob replied. "And we've got the answer:
we removed the plate glass window, drove the truck into the showroom floor, and
put the window back in."
"Surely
ye jest!" Robart exclaimed.
"At
Breakdown Bob's, good customer service is no joke!" Bob confirmed.
Personally,
I was seeing it as some sort of cosmic
joke.
"We'll
see about that window," Robart said with at least a hint of his usual
mischievousness.
I climbed
into the driver's seat and inserted the activation wand into the ignition
assembly. The truck's operating system instantly verified that the Token-ID on
the tiny glass rod matched that of the vehicle. The wand lit up green and the
status window read, [Anti-theft Protocol Disarmed]. The truck made a faint,
high pitched whine as the various systems came online. The heater activated and
71° air issued forth from the ventilation panels.
After a
moment, the screen updated and read:
[Liquid Fuel: 0%
Battery:
100%
Solar Assist: 0%
- Charging Super-capacitors...
Charging... Charged.
- Ready to launch on Batteries]
"If
it's ready," Robart said excitedly, "give her a go -- full speed
ahead!"
I pressed
the accelerator to the floorboards and aimed for the plate glass window. The
super-capacitors discharged their current and the tires chewed up ragged
ribbons of industrial carpet with a high pitched stuttering screech. We hit the
plate glass window with a crack as loud as any thunderclap. The glass shattered
into transparent razors.
We hit the
snowy highway, riding nearly ten feet off the ground. From this vantage, the
snow drifts that had looked so formidable from the shop now seemed little more
than white bumps. And as the trailing edge of the blizzard passed overhead, a
patch of blue sky opened that allowed Gai's light to stream down. I raised the
solar sail and continued west.
"Now
that's what I'm talkin' about!" Hector said with glee. I agreed with his
sentiment.
We were
indeed, at that moment, Lords of the Highways.
Of course,
we didn’t get to drive an actual straight line on Route 33. The icy wind blew
last night’s snow into huge ripples that resembled white dunes twelve feet high
in some places. The Highrider was intrepid, but it wasn’t invincible. And so, I
had to drive a slow, meandering path through the low parts of the “snow dunes”
as Dulgar called them. The Highrider’s status reported our forward speed as
As it
turned out, we were able to squeeze Construct Bob into the back seat of the
truck after all. His rubber body could collapse quite a bit without causing him
any internal structural damage. He seemed content to make small talk with
Hector and Dulgar as we drove.
I had
figured out how to interface with the truck’s comparatively primitive operating
system. I learned that part of the windshield could function as a visual
entertainment display simply by plugging a pre-recorded wand containing a
fiction pulp. The glove box did not hold gloves, but was in fact a small
microwave oven. The seats were heated,
and had a small humidor in the arm rests for storing cigars. A short roll-out
liquor cabinet hidden underneath the passenger seat and was conveniently
stocked with miniature bottles of extremely old booze. A mechanical hand could
be summoned from the dash board, which could be ordered to hold a book, a
drink, or some gadget or another. In the old civilisation, the citizens must
have been positively obsessed with personal comfort and immediate convenience.
Personally,
I had no idea how the good folk of yesteryear managed to drive while smoking,
drinking, eating, reading, and watching pre-recorded entertainment. Perhaps
they were simply better at multitasking than their descendants. Either that or
they got into a lot of highway accidents.
I drove
with the solar sail raised. It was partly sunny today, and Sky Eye predicted
that it would be several weeks before we would have another. I was fairly
certain that an ordinary horse could easily beat our progress, but the
reduction in speed was a fair trade for the humanoids having access to climate
control.
Overhead,
the Undead vulture reappeared. It made several scratchy, mocking cries in our
direction and resumed the low, lazy ellipse it had employed since our departure
from the Requiem Tower in Carthag.
“I sure am
getting sick of that thing,” Robart uttered gruffly.
He
scratched irritably at his face, which he had been unable to shave since
misplacing his straight razor in yesterday’s mad search for shelter. When he
commented about this, I informed him that the overhead storage pack contained
an electrically powered razor that plugged into the middle console.
“This truck
does evening except wipe my arse!” Robart declared.
“It shaves
as close as a blade! Guaranteed!” Bob chimed in.
“Who’s
guarantee?” Robart asked.
Silence.
“One does
not have that information,” Bob said apologetically. “Spiderweb appears to be
temporarily unavailable. Please ask again later.”
But that
didn’t stop him from describing all the other features of the truck. This went
on for 22 rounds. By this time Hector had fallen asleep and Dulgar was staring
out the window in an oblivious fashion. Robart, too, seemed at last to have had
his fill.
“Ye can
stop sellin’ me on this truck, lad!” Robart snapped. “I bought it already,
remember?”
“Of
course,” Bob said cheerfully. “At Bob’s Breakdown, the support doesn’t stop at
the sale. ‘We’re here for the Long Haul!™’”
“Thanks
farr th’ warning,” Lord Robart said ruefully.
The day was
otherwise uneventful. With the heavy snow, would-be highwaymen and bandits were
likely warming themselves at seedy pubs or low-lease brothels. I estimated that
it would take at least a day for any wandering Undead predators to dig
themselves out. My only security concern at the moment was our low rate of
speed. Without the truck’s internal combustion engine running, I was forced to
limit headway between 5-
It was
preferable to walking, however.
As we
passed the terminator into night, we were treated to a rare sight indeed: a
North Point sunset. The sky deepened from azure to indigo and then to cobalt.
The sun seemed to expand from a brilliant yellow circle into a gigantic fiery
red orb on the distant horizon. There seemed to be a certain moment of clarity
in which I could truly see everything: the rocks, the grasses, the snow drifts,
and the distant mountains. It was as if time paused for a moment in order to
give us the interval needed to appreciate what we had been given.
Time
resumed.
“Keep your
eyes on the road!” Robart exclaimed.
I swerved
just in time to avoid beaching the truck into a
“Understood,”
I said apologetically.
The truck’s
batteries were down to 7% charge when my remote probe spied an off-ramp ahead
for the town of Green Apple Gulch.
“Green
Apple Gulch,” Bob said, obviously reciting a data file. “Population 7,700.
Industries include fruit harvesting, wine bottling, and tourism. See the
Occa’Mai Plantation where it all began. Tour the glass-blowing factory where
the bottles for Green Apple ‘Harvest Time’ fruit wines are made. And who could
pass on a ride on North Point’s third largest Ferris wheel? Green Apple Gulch
also features two 4-Circle hotels and a variety of dining experiences. Click on
[gov|NP|TourGreenApple] for details and reservations.”
“Er...
Thanks?” Hector said.
“What’s a
Ferris wheel?” Dulgar asked.
Bob started
to reply, but Lord Robart cut him off saying, “Ye’ve got to save some of the
surprise for us!”
Robart
arched an eyebrow Bob’s direction and then instructed me to make the turn.
In the
truck’s halogen lamps, the first thing I noticed was that everything in town
appeared to be made of grey-black marbleized stone. Even wooden items like park
benches now had the appearance of carefully carved stone. As I slowly drove the
Highrider down the main avenue, it occurred to me that the former residents of
Green Apple Gulch must have enjoyed sculpture at least as much as agriculture,
for both sides of the street had dozens of very lifelike statues in various natural
poses. The trees that lined Green Grove Avenue also were, in fact, carvings of
trees, not actual living specimens. I found it all so curious. Forming the
backdrop of all this apparent sculpture stood a giant stone wheel at least
“This does
not match the reference material,” Bob said, observing the vacant, apparently
petrified town.
That the
historical recorded were at odds with reality was a fact I had accepted long
ago.
“There’s a
few lit buildings at the end of the street,” Robart pointed out. “We can hitch
the truck there.”
We passed
more statues, more stone carvings of dogs, cats, and even verminous rodents.
The sign posts, likewise, were fashioned from grey rock. Here and there, the
solidified hulks of AUVs lay unmoving like carved boulders.
A handful
of shops and residences showed some signs of occupation, however. Green Apple
Gulch still had an inn, a general store, a blacksmith, and a clothier. I
disengaged the transmission and removed the authentication wand from the
ignition slot and placed it into the small storage slot located in my right
forearm.
“Can ye
power this contraption back up so it’s ready farr t’morrow?” Robart asked.
“Yes,” I
replied.
I sent the
probe in with the rest of the group so that I could still fulfil my primary
duty of providing security. I connected the truck’s umbilical to my integrated
power outlet and began recharging the massive battery array. It was a good
thing that Constructs were incapable of experiencing “boredom”. If I could,
then this would certainly qualify as a “boring” task.
The inn was
named “The Harvest Hotel”. It was a sturdy-looking five-story affair with bow
windows. Sculpted vines framed the double door in front. The interior of the
inn was lit and heated by natural gas, which, despite the stony decor, made the
front room and dining area appear warm and inviting.
The
innkeeper and staff were all Dwarves. By their physical similarities, I guessed
that the hotel was a family business. The owner was a wizened old male with a
curly mop of white hair streaked with grey. He had a shiny red nose and bright,
quartz-coloured eyes. He was rather thick around the waist, and his face was
creased from a lifetime of grinning. He certainly looked happy at the moment at
least.
“Gertrude!”
He called to a middle-aged female Dwarf who was probably his daughter. “Warm
some cider for our guests. We want them to be comfortable!”
“Yes, pa
pa,” she replied brightly.
There were
six other guests, all Dwarves. They occupied a single long stone table near the
immense gas-powered hearth.
“We don’t
get many visitors this time of year,” the innkeeper said. “But you and your
friends are a welcome break from the monotony of the season. Tis true. I’m
called Gregor Redforge.”
Gregor
extended a calloused hand to Robart, who shook it.
“I’m Lord
Robart Brightsky, and these are my friends: Hector Grizzletooth, Dulgar
Gemfinder, and Construct Bob. And this here flying ball is part of Construct
Frank,” Robart introduced.
“Everyone’s
heard of Frank,” Gregor replied with a wink.
“They
have?” Robart asked, taken aback.
“Oh,
indeed!” Gregor said. “He’s been in the last three issues of ‘Macho Machines’,
delivered by whirligig of course.”
I had not
heard of the publication. Nor did I think of myself as being “macho”. So be it.
But I did know that many publications abounded that were formatted into long,
“Is there a
bounty on his head or anything?” Robart asked tentatively.
“Heavens
no,” the innkeeper said. “MM wrote all about his showdown with the assassin at
Requiem Tower and the fight with the Illuthiel cultists: sheer genius. The most
recent issue was about how nobody seems to know where he’s from or who built
him in the first place.”
“I’ve
wondered that a few times m’self,” Robart said.
“But
gettin’ on ta th’ matter at hand,” Robart diverted. “I’ve been wonderin’ why it
is that this whole town turned ta stone and why all the Humans are dead.”
“So you
noticed our slow-moving friends outside,” Gregor said with a wink.
“Slow, you
say? They are their own tombstones!” Robart roared.
“Begging to
differ, my lord,” Gregor Redforge countered firmly, “but those Slowpokes really
are alive. They move about twenty feet or so every year. So do the stone
animals.”
“You’re
kidding,” Robart said, scratching his beard.
“Nay, it’s
no jest,” the innkeeper replied. “Although, I have to have to admit that we
thought the same twenty years ago when we took over this hotel. Then, as the
seasons passed, we noticed that the statues did indeed change positions over
time. They are alive, and they are moving.”
“What
caused the change to this town?” Dulgar asked.
“I’m not
completely certain,” Gregor drawled. “But me and some of the others in town
figure a Stillpoint rolled through Green Apple Gulch about a hundred years ago
and changed everything to living stone.”
“That’s
interesting,” Dulgar replied. “It is rare that a Stillpoint kills, but they
always change things -- and rarely for the better.”
According
to data from Sky Eye, Stillpoints were spherical regions in which the standard
laws of physics were altered or suspended altogether. The largest stable
Stillpoint was the well-known 30-mile-wide Thin Space, while most were ten to
fifty feet in diameter. Most Stillpoints were stationary and lasted decades or
centuries, while a very small percentage were mobile and lasted only a few rounds.
These mobile Stillpoints effected the greatest change to the environment.
“Hot cider
and cinnamon rolls!” Gertrude chimed in, carrying in a broad tray of fresh
pastries and steaming beverages.
Gertrude
took the sign-in desk and Gregor sat down with us at one of the unoccupied
tables. Like everything else in town, the table was made of stone. The cider
must have been heated nearly to the boiling point, for my friends could take
only the most tentative sips and kept blowing across the top of their mugs. I
had my probe hover over Dulgar’s shoulder.
“We call
the stony people here ‘Slowpokes’”, the innkeeper continued. “The way I figure,
one round passes for them for every five years for us. That’s one hell of a way
to achieve immortality! We left all the stoned food where we found it, and left
the stoned orchard intact. They might need it in a thousand years or so.”
A Slowpoke
stood near the hearth, locked in a position of warming his hands. I suppose he
had been standing in that position for at least three or four years if the
innkeeper’s calculations were correct. I wondered if the petrified Human could
even feel the heat from the fire. What would someone in such a slow frame of
reference actually see?
I realised
that I could estimate the situation by engaging my math coprocessor. At five
years to one round, then every year equalled four segments. The Human eye
captured images at the rate of 60 per segment. So a Slowpoke’s vision captured
240 images per year. By extension, any person or object not stationary for at
least 18 hours in real time would actually be invisible to the Slowpokes.
Fascinating.
I commanded
my math coprocessor to run a simulation of what a Slowpoke would see in a
typical “day”. My status window went dark for a moment, but then displayed a
view out the front window and a look at the dining room of the inn.
The chairs
vanished from sight, and only flickered in view for the smallest fraction of a
segment... The tables remained, but jiggled around like the lids on over-boiling
stew pots. The table edges seemed indistinct and blurry. The Dwarves were
nearly invisible too, but the faint outline of Gregor or Gertrude flickered in
an out of existence like ghosts haunting a house. The great hearth lit for a
segment, extinguished, then lit again as the seasons cycled through in 1/5 of a
round. The fire didn’t flicker as much as it exuded a blurry glow.
“Frank, are
you up for a game of poker, lad?” I heard someone say.
The sky, as
seen from the front window, was a shapeless charcoal grey, blending day and
night into one. On the rare sunlit days, Gai appeared in the sky not as a
burning circle, but as a narrow arching stripe. Likewise, the Watcher would
occasionally show as a wide, bone-coloured ribbon against a sky that flashed
blackly only for an instant.
“Frank?”
In the
streets, wagons were ghosts, and the grassy hills seemed like they were
rendered in watercolour that passed from green to brown and back to green. I
found that it was possible to live an interesting life even at so slow a speed.
I ended the simulation.
“Frank!”
Robart yelled, and I realised that he was waving his hand in front of my
optical sensor.
“Yes,” I
said, catching the drift of the conversation. “Poker would be an acceptable
pastime.”
“Why didn’t
you say so sooner? Why don’t you take a break from that truck and come in for a
while” Robart asked me. Then he turned to Gregor and said, “You haven’t seen a
real poker face until you’ve seen him play.”
As
distracting as the simulation had been, I decided that it was a good thing that
Constructs were not susceptible to the phenomenon known as “day dreaming”.
I
disconnected from the Highrider’s charging umbilical and walked into the inn.
Gregor and Gertrude turned my way and stared for a moment. The family of
Dwarves near the hearth did likewise. Then they returned their attentions to
the tasks at hand. I thought that was odd, since they did not react that way to
Construct Bob.
Dulgar
borrowed a dictionary to hold up my cards. I still lacked the tactile dexterity
upgrade that would add fine movement to my hands. It seemed that every time my
upgrade buffer filled, some catastrophe would manifest that would necessitate
using the buffer to generate some new tool or weapon. Such was the way of things.
We played
low-stakes poker for glass and copper pieces only. Without the aid of my math
coprocessor, I quickly lost my cache of glass pieces. I didn’t actually carry
much cash as my liege had my pay automatically deposited into the First
Connemara Bryn-Mawr Bank of North Point. I also rarely needed to buy anything.
Construct
Bob, however, was much more competent at the art of gambling. While Dulgar and
Hector cashed out after forty-five rounds, it took Lord Robart a full two hours
to deplete the sales drone’s coin pile. Of course, Robart had loaned Bob the
money in the first place, so the nobleman had simply succeeded in winning his
own money back. During the last five hands, the front room had filled with the
hotel’s guests who had come down from their rooms to watch the rare spectacle
of a disciple of The Dealer play poker.
Finally,
Construct Bob was tapped out. But instead of pulling the entire pile of coins
into his money purse, he pushed part of the stack across the table to Bob.
“Your first
day’s pay, lad,” Robart said with a wink. “Don’t spend it all on women and
wine!”
“Gratitude,”
Bob said enthusiastically. Unfortunately, he said everything enthusiastically.
With a
stiff nod to my liege, I returned to the truck to resume charging its
batteries. As I scanned through the Highrider’s operating system, I discovered
that its Theoretical Engine also contained an upgrade buffer. It was nearly
empty since the truck was effectively brand new. But this revelation opened
some interesting possibilities. Remote-control driving and enhanced batteries
immediately came to mind. Of course, it would take the direction of a sentient
Construct to issue the upgrade command. Fortunately, our group was not in short
supply of sentient Constructs.
The night
passed without incident. A warm front pushed up from the south around midnight
and brought with it a moist, saturated breeze. Soon the air was so thick with
mist that I had to use my image recognition software to make out the vague
shape of the Harvest Hotel. The temperature steadily climbed until it levelled
off at 52°. Fog aside, this development would certainly make Dulgar happy.
The ground
became an expanse of swampy muck as the snow began melting. Trailers of steam
wafting off the snow drifts only added to the nearly impenetrable fog.
Dawn came,
although it did not get much brighter. I finished recharging the truck and
joined my humanoid companions as they ate their breakfast. I was satisfied to
find that the petrified chairs could easily support my weight. By the size of
the stack of dirty dishes in the middle of the table, Dulgar and Hector
appeared to be working on their third helping of sausage, eggs, and grits.
The
innkeeper’s daughter approached the table and unrolled a tiny scroll that had
obviously come out of a whirligig.
“Someone’s
got a daft sense of humour, milord,” Gertrude said. “It says here, ‘Lord
Cassandra proudly offers a 30 SP bounty for the severed head of a very specific
dangerous, bipedal verminous animal. The assassination of nobles like Robart Brightsky
is illegal, of course. Any who slay the animal in question through inhumane
means will receive an addition bonus of 5 SP.’ What a laugh!”
“He’s a
subtle one, lass,” Robart said with a yawn. “And yet he still wonders why he
can’t win at poker.”
Gertrude
crumpled the advertisement and fed it to the hearth fire.
“Listen,”
Robart said with a wink. “Can ye let me know if anyone comes a’lookin’ for me?”
My liege
handed her an unused whirligig with a blank message scroll inside. She nodded
in acceptance. Seventeen rounds later we were back on Route 33.
While the
comparatively warm weather agreed well with the humanoids, I found it
frustrating that the volatile conditions kept making the truck’s windows fog
over. I had to position my remote probe in front of the Highrider’s front
bumper in order that I might see where I was driving.
“Just use
the Turbo Defogger! With ClearView™ Technology, an easy view is only a
push-button away!” Construct Bob declared when I voiced the nature of the
driving problem.
I pressed
the button on the truck’s control panel. Nothing happened. Apparently the
defogger required that the internal combustion engine be engaged in order to
function. If I could sigh, I would have.
As the snow
kept melting, the road became a slick of brown mud that would have sucked the
boots off any unfortunate pedestrian. For the monster truck and its
ten-foot-high tires, however, the swampy mess proved to be no impediment. We
travelled the whole day at
“Does he
nae tire o’ sending half-baked assassins to their doom?” Robart asked as he
read the tiny scroll.
“No,” I
answered truthfully.
“That was a
rhetorical question, laddie,” Robart said not unkindly.
“What’s it
say,” Hector wanted to know.
“Says here,
‘A stranger rode in around noon and asked a lot of questions about you. I was
vague. He is tall, red hair, some kind of West Point accent.’”
“You know
what that means, right?” Hector asked, and gave a mischievous wink
“Afraid ta
ask,” Robart replied.
“You’ve
killed off all the local talent and now Lord Cassandra has to import his
assassins!” Hector answered with a laugh.
Robart
chuckled at that, while Dulgar rolled his eyes at the two. What I took from the
exchange was that I would soon have an opportunity to serve my liege in combat.
While driving a truck was certainly within my operating parameters, providing security
was a much more satisfying task.
It was just
a pity that the Highrider did not have a shield generator. I would have
preferred to dispatch the hired killer single-handedly while my friends waited
in a place of safety.
The fog
dispersed by 16:0:0 and the temperature had risen to 56°. While the spring
equinox was still three weeks away, perhaps today’s weather was one of the
“omens” that the humanoids put so much confidence in. Perhaps the rest of the
journey to Fractaltopia would be uneventful.
As the
Highrider crested a gentle hill, I realised that the belief in omens could be
categorised under the subject header “Hooey” (as the humanoids would
undoubtedly declare). While the trough between crests was a murky, muddy
temporary lake, three men stood defiantly at the midway point of the next rise.
One of the highwaymen, obviously the leader, wore a bear pelt in which the head
of the beast formed a helmet of sorts. His two henchmen wore heavy black
leather covered with spiked barbs that glistened with oily poison.
“Stop the
truck, Frank,” Robart said tiredly. “This should only take a few rounds.
“Are you
going to kill those three assassins?” Dulgar asked.
“That’s
what I’m hoping will happen!” Robart
replied.
I
disengaged the transmission and joined my liege in facing our new foes. It
didn’t seem that either side was particularly eager to wade through hip-deep
icy, muddy sludge in order to face the other party directly. For a moment,
Robart and the enemy leader just glared at each other menacingly, like a pair
of junkyard dogs.
“They call
me ‘Kodiak’”, the lead highwayman
said dramatically.
“You say
that like I’m supposed to have heard of you or something,” Robart shouted back.
“Well, I haven’t.”
“Well
you’ve heard the name now,” Kodiak glowered. “Step over here so I can kill you
for the bounty money!”
“Ye’re
mad!” Robart yelled back. “You expect me to walk across that muck just so you
can have a go at me?!”
“These are
new boots!” Kodiak retorted.
“Frank,” my
liege said. “Get back in the truck. I command you to run them over.”
“Understood,”
I replied, and activated combat mode.
While the
truck’s batteries could propel us all day at the leisurely pace of five miles
per hour, it could provide short bursts of speed quadruple that amount.
“Coward!”
Kodiak called out. “Is this ignominious retreat the bravery of the mighty Lord
Robart Brightsky?”
Personally,
I was surprised that the highwayman knew the word “ignominious”.
“Who said
anything about retreating?” Robart shot back.
I took that
as a cue to push the accelerator to the floor. With a lurch and a high-pitched
electrical whine, the monster truck surged across the sludge and smacked into
Kodiak mid-gloat. I activated the windshield wipers to clean the window of the
bright arterial blood that fouled the windscreen upon impact.
Kodiak’s
two henchmen ran in opposite directions. I jammed the transmission into reverse
and floored the pedal while turning 90°. With a wet thud, I ran over one of the
would-be attackers. Shifting forward, the hired killer was crushed into a
bloody paste beneath the massive spinning tires. The third one was running away
at top speed, Robart signalled to let him go.
“So much
for Kodiak,” Robart sneered.
I agreed
silently and disabled Combat Mode.
We resumed
our forward trajectory at five miles per hour, but the brief combat sequence
had drained a full hour of charge from the battery array. I informed my liege.
“Well,
lad,” he said. “It’s not like we can do anything about it. We’ll stop when we
have to.”
The curious
thing is that Kodiak and associates did not match the description of the man
that Gertrude said now pursued us. This probably meant that we were in for an
additional encounter before long.
Construct
Bob babbled on affably as I drove. He and Hector seemed to be quickly developing
a friendship. For some reason, the talkative, less sophisticated drone seemed
to really appeal to the Paladin. Hector and I “got along”, but I could already
see that Hector and Bob would someday have as substantial a friendship as
Dulgar and I shared. I found it curious that Dwarves had deep and abiding
friendships with sentient machines, but Humans rarely did.
The truck’s
battery pack discharged at 16:3:7, approximately an hour before darkfall.
Robart had the clever idea to suspend the tarp from the discarded wagon over
the truck bed in order to fashion a tent of sorts. It kept out the wind and the
faint drizzle that had begun shortly before the truck lost power.
Bob dug a
shallow depression and lined it with small stones so that Able could cook
dinner for the humanoids. The campfire, being fed by damp twigs and grass, was
a noisy, smoky affair. My security database indicated that it was not a good
idea to give away our location with what amounted to a
I connected
myself to the Highrider’s power port and began recharging the batteries. I
turned around to watch Able prepare the evening meal. It was then that I
discovered how trivial the fire was to our overall security profile.
If I was the
kind of being who exclaimed obscenities when confronted with an unpleasant
surprise, I would have launched a string of curses that would have embarrassed
a veteran merchant marine. As I looked in the direction from whence we came,
the Highrider’s massive tires had dug huge,
Robart
finished assembling the truck tent, turned around, and flushed red. He
apparently realised the same thing I did.
“Damn it to
Hell!” He bellowed. “There’s a trail leadin’ t’ us that a blind man could
follow!”
“I didn’t
want to spoil your fun,” Hector said, “seein’ how much you’re enjoying your new
ride.”
“Next
time,” the nobleman hissed, “feel free to rain on my parade!”
As the sky
darkened, I and the other two constructs set up a security perimeter. It was
unlikely that a would-be assassin could slip by three sets of unblinking,
tireless eyes. I kept my sodium lamps burning at 85% capacity and Able kept the
camp fire burning. There was no need for camouflage, so we might as well have
light and heat.
It was at
19:5:5 when my sensor probe spied a cloaked figure on horseback, careful
navigating around the huge piles of partially melted snow. A smaller furry
animal followed closely, but the lighting at this distance was insufficient to
determine its exact species. It was slightly bigger than a pony.
I alerted
my liege, who in turn uttered a string of terrible oaths.
“At least
it’s only one beggar’s son this time,” Robart said confidently. “We’ll cut him
down like winter wheat!”
“Sir,”
Construct Bob objected. “This unit is not programmed for farming.”
“You can
hold a wrench, can’t ye?” Robart asked.
“That task is
within my capabilities,” Bob replied.
“Then,
lad,” Robart said evenly and slowly as one would instruct a child, “why don’t
ye grab a wrench from the truck’s tool box. If the man approaching attacks me,
hit the man with the wrench!”
“This unit
understands,” Bob said. “And fortunately, each Highrider comes complete with a
set of SureCraft™ wrenches and pliers. Whether you’re tightening a bolt or
cracking an enemy assassin’s skull, SureCraft™ tools have a lifetime
guarantee!”
“Whose
lifetime?” Robart asked.
There was
an uncomfortable pause, and then Bob said, “One will just retrieve the wrench.”
“Now ye’re
makin’ sense!” Robart said.
We waited
in silence for the next seven rounds as the stranger approached. Robart had
Symmetrika’s Hope drawn and blazing in silver radiance. Dulgar’s glass tablet
and stylus glowed ominously with the potential energy of a potent Mathematical
formula. Hector had his axe and shield ready for close combat. My combat
software was active, my shield hummed with power, and the barrels of my nailgun
were loaded with lethal projectiles.
The
stranger crested the last rise, drew back his hood, and exclaimed: “This is the
welcome I get after a month of tracking?!”
It was, of
course, Talon Brightsky, Robart’s son.
Lord Robart
sheathed Symmetrika’s Hope and ran up the muddy hill to embrace his son. I also
noticed that the small animal accompanying Talon was none other than Blackie
the Alpaca, who whooped with excitement upon seeing Dulgar.
“They said
you were dead!” Robart exclaimed at last, ending the embrace.
“They were
wrong, dad,” Talon replied with a grin. “And for some, they were dead wrong!”
“Oh
brother,” Dulgar murmured.
The alpaca
trundled down the hill to Dulgar, and the Dwarf began stroking his companion’s
furry black head. The creature made more of the happy-sounding whooping noises
as a result of the affectionate attention.
“Where have
ye been all these years?” Robart asked in amazement.
“Well,
dad,” he explained sheepishly, “I took a stupid dare and went to Shade Runner’s
Reach.”
I was not
familiar with this town, and said so.
“Frank,”
Robart said, “there’s a place not too far from home that’s not really there.
It’s some ghost town that got swallowed up by a huge Stillpoint two hundred
years ago. It flickers back into place once in a while.”
“Right,”
Talon continued. “Anyway, Mirk and Brovad said that I wasn’t as brave as you.
Geez, that sounds stupid now.”
Robart
nodded.
“So they
told me to fetch something of value from Shade Runner’s Reach. I figured I’d
just run in, grab a pot or a fork, and run out. Well the goddamned town
vanished again before I could get out. And instead of dropping me back in
place, it dropped me into some ghastly slave-city two-hundred years in the
future. Of course, I guess Dulgar and his Construct told you the rest.”
This was a
rather unexpected turn of events. Dulgar’s cheeks burned bright red, and I
thought I heard him mutter a curse under his breath.
“No,”
Robart said icily, “Frank and Dulgar
never talked much about their origins, though I’ve wondered myself more than
once.”
“My lord,”
Dulgar began, but was cut off by the nobleman’s white-hot wrath.
“You knew
my son, and you said nothing?!” Robart roared. “His absence has driven my wife
nearly mad with grief, but you held your tongue? How could you?!”
“We thought
you wouldn’t believe us,” Dulgar said sheepishly.
“That’s a
coward’s excuse!” Robart raged.
“I know it
is,” Dulgar replied, looking at his feet. “I am a coward. I was trained to make
suits and capes, but I have become a warrior in the best way that I could.”
“One offers
to resign,” I said.
“No,”
Robart said after nearly a round of silent contemplation. “But if ye both want
to keep your heads, don’t either of you dare talk to me for a week. You’ll do
as I say and only speak to me in response to direct questions. And when that
week is over, the three of us are going to have a long chat. Ye two are going
ta tell me everything!
“If ye do
this ta me again, I won’t fire you, I’ll kill you and I’ll melt Frank down for
ploughshares. Do ye both understand?”
Taking his
warning at face value, I nodded my answer.
“Good,”
Robart said gruffly. “Go recharge the truck so that we can be off at first
light.”
Robart
walked off in a huff and began setting up camp -- away from Dulgar and me. Able
stood at the midpoint between us, apparently paralysed by conflicting loyalty.
“Did we
blow it?” Dulgar whispered.
“No,” I
replied. I wished that I could whisper, but my speech synthesis only produced
two levels of sound.
“It feels
like we blew it,” Dulgar said glumly.
I wished
that I could communicate with him in machine language. It was faster and more
efficient than the spoken word. But I did know why we had to maintain our
silence. With Lord Robart’s life or death as the lynch pin for changing the
future, it would have been unmanageable for him to know his role. He would have
second-guessed every decision he made and would have probably made incorrect
decisions at critical moments. No, I knew, our deception had been necessary
even if it had been unkind.
“Ever since
the time changed, I can tell when you’re thinking,” Dulgar said. “You think
about more things than you can talk about.”
“Yes,” I
confirmed.
“I usually
can’t tell what you’re thinking exactly,” Dulgar continued. “But sometimes I
can understand the impression of your thoughts, like seeing the silhouette of
an object.”
“Interesting,”
I agreed.
I wondered
why it was that it was so difficult for me to formulate sentences in spoken
words. It had always been that way, of course. But it never bothered me until I
received my soul. Now I had the will to be more expressive but still lacked the
capability to do so. Perhaps my speech synthesis needed an upgrade.
I had my probe hover above Robart’s side of the camp once the sky grew dar