A sharp wind chased a wall of wet watery dust, turning the surrounding gray world into a solid blur without any reference points. A time when it's best to sit in a warm hole, crammed in as deep as possible. In the vain hope of warding off rotting flesh and pain in the loose contacts to the attachments. Though some of the old men told him that the cursed people's houses were warm. And even the lights are on. A light was the kind of thing that dangled at the entrance to the Blinders' dungeon. But the support base of the brain-dead cyborgs has long since been destroyed, and no one will be able to explain to the new generation of mutants and Irreconcilables what electric light is. As well as how it can be warm in a burrow when there is a frost outside or the first of the spring showers that can flood any hole.
Tirith turned cautiously to his other side and grimaced as his burnt back gave off a nagging itch. A good reminder not to underestimate the cockroach-breeding Wild Ones, Blinders, and all those pseudo-intelligents who dream of reclaiming their former glory and greatness. Just a moment's hesitation at the edge of the wastelands had caused an alien patrol to emerge from behind the hill and swoop down on the mutants, poking around the ruins in the hope of a meal. The leader of the pack was incredibly lucky that he was looking in the right direction and had time to order a hasty retreat of his group, leaving their neighbors to their fate. That's why they only got away with burns, and the foreign clansmen, caught unawares, burnt to death in a napalm shower. But that was all to the good. The direct competitors who had previously ruled over the well-appointed ruins perished in the devastating fire. Now was the perfect opportunity to take their place. No more need to share a piece of iron or loot you have found. No need to fear that a strong alien pack will force you to shovel out the cold ground and prepare a den for their leader. Very, very fortunate was the stranger's patrol passing by. If only we could get their weapons, then we could put the cyborgs in their place. They don't take kindly to mutts, the damned tin cans.
The thought made Tirith sit upright. He was the most cunning and vindictive of the young brood. A mutant who had studiously avoided mutilating his mangled body with jamming implants. For forceful action, there were two fighters in the pack, blunt but efficient, capable of breaking through a brick wall with metalized hands. Three or four more inserts and all the difference with the cyborgs would be erased. But the rest of the group of youngsters followed the leader: minimum of modifications, getting what they wanted by cunning, cruelty, and betrayal of their tribesmen. Because any method is good for survival. And meat - what difference does it make who you get: a neighbor or a captured Wild One.
But now Tirith was not contemplating an ambush on the alien caravan trails. No. The fiery flower that had devoured the strong and aggressive mutts swelled before his inner gaze time after time. So dangerous in hand-to-hand combat. But stupid. And clumsy. And what if the same napalm charge would sweep away the nest of cyborgs that had taken over the southern part of the ruins? Or, better yet, bring the caravans down on them. Then the Irreconables would be slaughtered, and the humans would be weakened. Perhaps they would be so weakened that they could be crushed beside the nest that was destroyed. For example, to incite them to attack their neighbors. Promise them meat, sweet human flesh. And for themselves, to get his hands on weapons. Ammunition. Rovers... Though it's hard to deal with rovers, because no one knows how to operate them. But they've mastered the weapons. They don't have a lot of them, only some of the leaders. And they have nothing to shoot with. But there is a chance. And with weapons, Tirith can go very far. Very...
The scarred scarred snout grinned as the mutant discovered yet another facet of reasonableness. It turns out it is possible to think not only about females or food. It turns out - you can see the future and plan how to achieve it. Not for nothing is his pack the wisest in this part of the wasteland. And if it tries hard enough, it could be the only one. The biggest. The most organized. And strong. And strength is the only thing that counts on Dead End. And Tirith knew how he would become the strongest on the Badlands. And maybe beyond. Until he took over everything around him. Because mutants didn't know how to stop. That was probably the one thing they didn't know how to do.
***
“How much longer do we have to wait? A year, two years, forever?”
If the mechanical voice could express emotion, the interlocutor would hear unconcealed irritation and skepticism. But the three true rulers of the Blinders never wore a human face. Nor did they aspire to it. What was the point of weak flesh, unable to withstand heat or radiation. Mechanical bodies often malfunctioned in the inhospitable streets of underground cities.
“I don't suggest we wait. We can use the first Totem now. I only suggest that we not rush to make and implement hasty decisions. There are too many unconsidered factors in our path. There are too many contingencies that can change the situation dramatically. Are we not going to feed our acquisition for another week or two?”
“It's not about resources. He annoys me.”
The older Blinder turned his head like a clump of wires and questioned again, not believing what he heard:
“Have you succumbed to human emotion?”
“Sometimes it's good to exploit someone else's weaknesses. It makes it easier to understand your neighbors' weaknesses and to influence them when the occasion arises.”
“Interesting interpretation of such strange behavior. Your behavior... And what do they do to you... Annoy you?”
The mechanism, which looked like a safe on wheels, answered, evidently parodying someone else's reprimand:
“They are greedy, unprincipled, unable to foresee the future. They've practically robbed us, charging everything they can for Totem. We have effectively been deprived of free resources. Any emergency, which you urge us to keep in mind, and we are left naked.”
“We have gained a temporary ally.”
“We have no allies,” cut off the cyborg who likes to analyze other people's emotions. “And I will gladly wring that mold from the surface. I'll start with the idiot who cost me a fortune.”
There was a faint sigh in the semi-darkness. No matter how hard mechanistic civilization tried to rid itself of its past, its proximity to its creators still played tricks on them. Digital personalities were not only able to count quickly and adapt to changing conditions. Blinders were the creation of people and embedded sets of programs still contained a reflection of the alien culture, with all its pros and cons. Although can humanity or its reflection be considered a disadvantage?
“I've always said that your military specialization limits your horizons. You're great at short-term analysis, but you lose out in strategic perspective.”
“Explain!”
“Totem will help us open the vault. We'll gain access to the reactor and power the dying infrastructure. But we're poorly shielded from attack from above. And not from humans, we can handle them. I'm talking about the Irreconcilables. Against them we are vulnerable. They, like us, are weakly sensitive to radiation, they are difficult to destroy with the light weapons with which stationary outposts are equipped at the exits. Not only that, our aggressive brethren can use the equipment gathered on the wastelands against us and destroy the city.”
“We will go to the lower horizons. The mines will hold everyone, and the upper tunnels can be blown up.”
“Why?”
Chosen for his excellent organizational skills, the Analyst slowly continued, trying to sway the Blinders' best fighter to his side. They were all highly organized machines and listened to the arguments:
“Why would we want to lose our settled levels? Leave the mines, laboratories and well-established production? It's far easier and cheaper to build new armor, to buy an ally.”
“People?” The closet on wheels grunted. His use of human emotion seemed to include the rudiments of humor. “You want to use these pathetic semblances of soldiers to protect us?”
“Exactly. Look, two years ago their clans roamed the coast, never staying anywhere for long. Now the United Clave controls all the approaches to the old mining tunnels. They've also scratched the mutants and irreconcilables clean over the summer, and they have no intention of giving it up without a fight. And they don't intend to give it up without a fight.”
“They'll be wiped out.”
“If we don't support them. Even more accurately, they could be pushed back to the dunes. Closer to the sites of the former atomic bombings. Toward the ruined cities. If the escapees from the space stations hit from the south. But they will not be able to destroy them.”
“From the north, cyborg armies would be added, and the remains of the defeated settlements would be devoured by mutants. It's already happened. Forty years ago.”
The Analyst waited, giving his interlocutor a chance to speak. He possessed infinite patience. And he was vitally interested in an ally. So were all the Blinders. Only a united underground city headquarters could forge an optimal policy and pave the way for survival. It was worth enduring for the sake of it.
“I remember well the burning of human settlements. And what, you want to repeat the experiment again?”
“There won't be a rout.”
“Why not?”
“Because the Wild Ones are having more babies. When you're nomadic, it's a matter of numbers to survive. Their chiefs didn't start restricting fertility. And now the clans have not only rebuilt their former lineup, they have renewed themselves qualitatively. Up there are well-trained trackers, scouring all the ruins in uncontaminated lands. Up there are soldiers who have been fighting all their lives, since birth. And we've been systematically supporting them, for the last year in a row. Medicines, scanners, rudimentary small arms. We have raised a force that has now settled in the territory we need and is capable of standing up for itself. A force our neighbors used to ignore, thinking them foolish and scattered to the wind. But the Wild Ones are back where they came from. And are now capable of fighting back.”
“I doubt it.”
“Open the list of equipment sold and think, what did they get for Totem? They got it by pulling off the best deal of the century, almost looting our storerooms... Ha! I'd ask them to take it as a gift myself. Because we don't need tons of drugs, hundreds of express labs, and portable resuscitation complexes. We cleaned out the cluttered warehouses of special storage, we gave away what people prepared for future generations. They themselves laid the groundwork for their own rebirth a hundred years ago, before the First War. And we only gave them back what was rightfully theirs.”
“And also two carloads of rifles and two hundred thousand cartridges of ammunition. And batteries for them. And..”
“Exactly. We fed the Wild Ones into this territory. They realized they could hold their own here. And now they'll believe in their newfound power. Because they got weapons. They got a chance to get even. Not as a handout, but as a steep price for the Totem. As payment for our right to live in the dungeon under their patronage. Quietly and discreetly. Just as they dream... Do you understand? We are valuable to them-as a supplier of medicine in the future, as a weak neighbor ready to pay off. There is no need to conquer us - you lose the opportunity to trade something useful for metals and garbage from the wastelands. But they won't give up a settled neighborhood, either. Because it's a convenient place for them. And tied to us.”
The commander of the underground army was silent for a long time. Then he was forced to confess:
“Indeed, I have not considered the problem from this point of view. A very unusual approach.”
“You had other problems. But - I still ask questions in the future. I may already have answers to them. Or we can find them together... So I suggest we take it slow for now. In the interesting multi-way combination that we have started, even the Totem used can play a positive role. Maybe we'll let him go back. As an example of our peacefulness and future contact for closer ties. Or, conversely, send it on a search expedition to other areas... A thousand different possibilities, each of which can be turned to our advantage.”
“There's a second one.”
“Exactly. And you suggested throwing them away. Because they annoy you...”
Hooking up a tiny power cable, the Analyst plugged in the connector and ended the impromptu meeting:
“I suggest we take it slow for now. There's plenty of rejects for the bio-reactor. We can always take the first and second Totems apart. But for now, they have value as operable units. At least until we open the vault. By the way, when are you going there?”
“Tomorrow. Wild reported that a second team just left town. I want to use the sample I received so that in case of any trouble, I'll have time and resources unaffected by radiation. It's too risky to use both Totems at the same time.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Fine. Take the transponder with you and report back immediately. And may we be lucky.”
Slowly the iron box rolled toward the door and muttered:
“Luck is not a predictable quantity.”
“But it has so much to do with the human race. And since the key will be one of them, let him activate that non-normalized factor for our benefit. As you said, we must use the strengths and weaknesses of our neighbors for our victory. That is the key to success," the Analyst left the last word to himself. Then he turned off the lights in the room. The Blinds have had to conserve energy in recent years. And an earthling bought out on the surface had to solve that problem. Or die. It was up to his luck. Depends on how the proverbial unformalizable factor worked out.”
***
“I'm not going in there. No way!”
Kairi was shaking. As soon as the young guard found out where the Wildling squad was headed, the boy went over the edge. He paced around the rover, bumping into protruding hardware and whining nonstop:
“To the damned cyborgs, to the very lair! What the devil! We're going to die there! No, we won't just die, we'll be remade, stuffed with implants and sent to fight for their damn gods!”
“Cyborgs don't have gods. They only have math,” said Hut, sounding phlegmatic as he settled comfortably back in his gunner's chair. At the first stop of the caravan, he got out of the car and made contact with the guards. At first the meeting threatened to turn into a fight, but then the cunning old man showed them the tobacco and chewing gum he had stashed away and succeeded in channeling the Wild Ones' aggression in a productive way. Now the former crew chief was sipping hard moonshine from a murky bottle and listening intently to what else Kairi might come up with. It seemed that the life-beaten vagabond was preoccupied with the terrors that had taken a fancy to another man's mind.
“Who cares why we get cut up! Don't you hear? You don't come back from there! From the cyborgs, no human could ever get away alive!”
“From the Irreconcilables, yes. And the Blinders don't care about people. If you trade, fine. If you don't trade, they're not interested in you. They've got plenty of entertainment of their own underground.”
“But that's where we're going! Underground!”
The boy pressed himself up against the chair and whispered, his eyes whirling wildly:
“Hut! You know better than I do that you can only trust your own! And this one... He's not even human! Have you seen how he learns? He's worse than machines! He's... He's scarier than they are! Smarter, more cunning, more flexible. I've never seen anything like that in my life!”
“You've seen a lot in your life,” the old man sighed, carefully wiping the droplets of saliva from his cheek. “Well, an alien. Maybe they're all like that.”
“To hell with him. What are we waiting for? Rover's on the move. We'll crush the bastard at night and go home. We found out about the base. There is no base. Run before we're completely lost!”
“Run? And the forty Wild Ones will sit and wait for us to get there? Are you out of your skull? You got kicked in the stomach during the attack, not the back of the head. And how can you run away, if they fill you up with fuel every time for half a day's run? Oh, you're a fool, Kairi. Stupid... You'd think they'd be expecting us back home.”
The guard sat on the crate bolted to the side of the rover, and kicked an adjustable wrench angrily at his feet:
“I don't know what your beef with the troopers is, but I ain't got nothing to complain about.”
“Well, well. They put you on a hike, didn't they? If it hadn't been for that strange tramp, they'd have buried you in the ruins. All of them. You, the Council's favorite, and us convicts.”
A sip or two more, Hut corked the neck of the bottle carefully and placed it at the side, gently covering it with a cloth. He squinted through the embrasure at the wastelands stretching past, and asked lazily:
“If you're so glib, why didn't you stay in town? You were offered: to quarries or to the cross. Perhaps he could have escaped. But no, he came with us. To his death.”
Kairi hissed, shuddering, trying feebly to keep his voice from exploding:
“"Didn't ask you how I was going to die! That's it! And you know, you know! I'll tell you this - I don't give a damn about anything! I don't care! And when I get the chance, I'll run away. And you can get out of here! Under the ground or anywhere else... But without me.”
Sitting on the roof of the rover, Carlos leaned over the open hatch, sticking his hand to the dusty latches, and asked:
“Hut, how's that stew to drink? Let me wet my throat, huh?”
The Earthman took a sip and gave the bottle back, nodding approvingly. Then he looked at the angry Kairi and grinned:
“You hear me, you fool, you scream a little louder. So I'm not the only one who can hear. Then you'll have to go to your place in chains. Or you may as well run on foot. I went to a lot of trouble to let you ride in a rover. It'd be a shame if one idiot ruined a nice ride. They've got the guards on us. They're just trying to get the Downworlders to do something nasty. And me, too... I've had my share of walking property. If they don't slit my throat, they shit on my sinuses. At least for themselves, so that others would be offended by the stench...”
The old man looked at the frightened lad huddled in the corner, then stirred the rest of the moonshine and tapped unhappily on the edge of the hatch:
“Eh, slave-owner! You said soak, and you drank most of it! Did I buy it for you?”
“You sampled it. If you're still alive, it means they don't want to poison us. Don't be silly, we'll camp tonight, I'll get some more. It's good stuff, you chose the right drink.”
“Yeah? Well, it's on you. I'm empty.”
“Yeah. Like I don't know your stash from your car... All right, it's no big deal. I'll buy a couple or two for the road tomorrow. I'll get some for tonight. It's more fun to eat the dust.”
Fidgeting on the rolled-up sacking, Carlos shut up, squinting lazily at the scenery around him. Guards were lurking on a cart hitched to the rear, and three large, unintelligible tube-like structures on wide wheels dusted along the sides. His inherited memory plucked a similar picture and put two incomprehensible words together: “Mad Max”. Who this Max was, Carlos did not yet know. But active studies in the abandoned city launched some secret mechanisms in his head, and in the soul there was a certainty that one day the memory would finally wake up. And then the man would finally turn from a machine trained to kill into a living person. Or at least a semblance of one. After all, five years of memories and the remnants of personality are better than empty nights filled with darkness. Better to be a piece of a living person from the past than nothing...
***
Until a month ago, Too had found pleasure in attending Council meetings. Not even Lurg could spoil his mood with the occasional nagging. So much for the commander of the colony's armed forces. A man who could send a select hundred goons to their deaths. A hundred... I guess that's it. The colony can hold no more soldiers under arms. And though almost every adult inhabitant has been trained and theoretically could use the pathetic remnants of the accumulated weapons, but real combat experience had not many. For example - the backbone of the alarm group that roamed on reconnaissance and on emergency calls of hit caravans. They spent more time raiding and attacking the mutants that were breeding in the north. Occasionally a cyborg could be shot. But still, people with long memories could still tell about the five hundred well-trained fighters who trekked to the shore of the shallowing sea. Or even farther, to the area of atomic-blasted cities. Five hundred against the present. And it was only sixty years ago. Sixty. Years of extinction and degradation. Years of impoverishment. Just a little longer and the Wild Ones will consume the once mighty colony...
“I think the nest must be destroyed. The scouts have fried the mutants' heels. Then we have the perfect opportunity to attack the cyborgs by surprise. Their chain dogs were killed by napalm. That's why the robots requested backup.”
Lurg made confident movements, showing on the map how he was going to conduct the operation. Where he would put the rocket launchers, where he would place the throwers. Infantry, corrals, a sniper team. He didn't seem to be planning a future attack, but rather talking about a successful mission.
Too listened with his arms folded across his chest. The dwarf didn't even dangle his feet, out of old habit. He didn't seem to be here. It seemed as if it was just someone forgetting a pile of old rags on a high chair. But in fact the head of the alarm group heard everything perfectly well and did not miss a single word. Waiting for the approving comments to subside, he asked his brief question. And by the evil squinting eyes of the commander I knew I was in trouble:
“Why is the transmitter still working?”
Small hands rested on the table, palms pressed firmly against the plastic tabletop. After waiting, Too asked again, carefully enunciating each word:
“Why? Cyborgs had never turned the transmitter on to a constant broadcast before. They used to send a signal, and then another, and then they went silent. Now they've been yelling for almost twenty-four hours. On a non-standard frequency, with the main beam directed in our direction.”
“They made a mistake in the equipment setup. There's no other explanation. Either it's a minor malfunction, and the signal strength is higher than usual in our direction.”
“People make mistakes. Machines never do. Never in my memory. But even if they were caught doing something new, it wouldn't work a second time. Because the damn machines are constantly updating their database, constantly learning. And to screw up so badly?”
Lurg dropped the pointer irritably and turned his whole body toward the dwarf, looking like an angry bear:
“Do you have any suggestions? Something solid, not snotty fears?”
“I can. We need to raise the luger.”
“What? Are you kidding me? Our only aircraft with a worn-out lifespan?”
“Yes. The only one. Worn out. But capable of three or four kilometers above the area and make a survey. It'll show us right away what's really in ruins. And if there is an ambush waiting, we will spot it.”
The Council members squirmed in their seats, commenting on the stupid suggestion with short laughter. To risk so much valuable equipment and for what? To gaze up at the snow-covered ruins?
Convinced he was outnumbered, Too shrugged and grunted his way down from his chair. He stood for a moment, then looked grimly at Lurgh:
“I've only got two rovers left in my group with engines on standby. And six young men with combat experience looking up cooks' skirts. So if anything... You hear that, grand strategist? If anything goes wrong, there'll be no one to extract you from the wastelands. None at all... First you kicked Hut's ass into a wild raid. Then you stole parts and weapons for me. Now you're about to stick your head in an obscure venture with no cover... Well, you tell me. But according to the laws of the colony, I can give my own opinion. And please put it on the record: I do not agree with the proposed raid on the identified cyborg nest. I like the idea on the whole, but I find the proposed plan too risky. Too risky.”
Ending his speech on such a pessimistic note, the dwarf turned around and walked out. It seems that the missing deputy was right - the colony was slowly moving toward its inevitable finale. And the Council's backstabbing political games only brought the inevitable end closer.
As he paced the rattling iron plates, Too tried to think of some way to get out of the impending trouble. And that there would be trouble, he sensed, like the sand spiders that liked to braid their weightless cobwebs into the bushes during the short summer months. There was only one problem: There was nowhere else to escape the colony. The six drop-off points after the dart from orbit had turned first into three, and in recent years had been reduced to two settlements. And the second at all was teetering on the brink of survival. So they would have to make it on their own, without hope for others. And all this without comrades who can watch their backs in any situation and go against the Council.
“They're crazy, warriors,” Too cursed and stormed into the garage. “They'll save their money sooner or later, the idiots. Hey, Myrra! What happened to the rovers? Did you manage to rebuild any of the engines?”
A scruffy-looking mechanic girl's face peeked out of the tiny utility room. Squinting wide-eyed, the iron mistress scratched her oiled nose and answered a question with a question:
“Did you get the parts? Both gearboxes were replaced, and the transfer gearbox was barely breathing. The second one could be thrown out.”
“What parts? Am I a magician to you?”
“Then find another job, Mr. Chief. Rovers are dead.”
Too froze, looking at the emptied doorway. Then with cheerful anger he wagged his finger at someone upstairs and repeated:
“And no backup, Lurg. At all. Bare-assed on the wasteland. One and done... The i-di-o-ts...”
***
A tiny lantern struggled to dispel the heavy darkness around him. Basil Livshitz clutched the battery box to his chest and tried not to even think about what would happen when the charge ran out. The endless corridors of the dungeon filled with hot, stifling air made him feel claustrophobic. And the silent iron figures of the attendants seemed to revive the fears of childhood nightmares. But the boy only repeated to himself every minute: “I knew what I was doing! I myself, myself strived for it!” And Basil descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the alien planet, illuminating for himself the dust-covered path of endless corridors.
“Here we are. You have ten minutes. If you don't make it, you'll boil with radiation.”
The first of the escorts touched a heavy panel with his metal claw, jiggled an oiled bolt, and swung the lid open. Rolling aside, he gestured to the dark panel:
“Put your hand here. Wait for the answer.”
He waited a moment, then gestured for it again. The alien didn't know much of the language, though, and it would have been far easier to guide him, like the dumb cyborgs in the smelting shops.
Basil cautiously put his palm down, spreading his fingers out, and waited. As far as he remembered from the explanations, the lowest levels hid a huge warehouse left behind by the planet's former masters. The cyborgs who had gone underground had managed to rebuild partially destroyed production and set up laboratories and factories. But the emergency reactors were finishing their last resources and were about to shut down. And only a true master could gain access to the strategic depots deep underground: a human. A man unaffected by radiation and chemical weapons. A man of the past, so rare in a war-torn world.
Suddenly a relay clicked and a green light flickered along the palm, drawing the outline of a heel. A string of tiny icons ran down the side of the panel, and a metallic voice boomed from the ceiling:
“Activation deemed justified. Status one - confirmed. Status two - confirmed. Status clearance - confirmed. Level blockade lifted. Access granted.”
The gruff, hushed voice was followed by a clatter of hidden gears in the wall and a portion of the wall crawled forward. The squad leader gestured for the man to step aside, making way for other cyborgs. Waiting for the stoppers in the depths of the passageway to jam the armored wide door in the open position, he poked back with his claw and commanded:
“Home. That way. You got it? We might still need you. But right now, back and fast. There's nothing for humans to do here until we clear the damaged waste repository.”
After waiting for part of the squad to disappear behind the tiny light, he turned to the remaining mechanics:
“Load identification codes, deactivate traps and security system. Gain access to the main reactor. Begin gathering information about the vault.”
Two hours later the Analyst received the first report, which after much deliberation he still decided to show to the other Blinders rulers.
“The door is open, access granted.”
“So, do we survive?”
“I do not know yet... Resources are in our hands. But with energy, it's not so clear-cut. The reactor won't start without the master key. People just couldn't get it into the vault in time. The First War started too suddenly for them.”
“The key? And where would we get one? There's nothing like it in any of the warehouses.”
“Of course not. Because it was left with its owners in an auxiliary control bunker. Thirty kilometers from the main one, which received two direct nuclear strikes almost a hundred years ago. And next to which, not so long ago, the Irreconcilables established their capital... So, although we have the Totem, which opened access to the future, but we are still far from victory...”
The Strategist of the underground people paused, then said doubtfully in his voice:
“I have heard... Although the information may not be verified... The second Totem, who will arrive tomorrow morning at the entrance of the mines... He's a warrior. And a good warrior, with excellent training and weapons. Why don't we try to use him as a lock on the bunker? If the alien managed to survive the landing on the planet, managed to destroy one of the Irreconcilables in battle... Could he be the unformalizable factor that people value so much? Maybe we can use it to our advantage? Other people's luck for the benefit of the Blinders?”