Giving Thanks

Part the First - Sowing

Chapter One

I struggled uphill through the snow-laden pass, the weight of the wagon behind me less onerous than the questions filtering through from the cargo.

"Miss Tina, when will we be stopping for dinner?"

I pitched my voice to be heard over the gusting wind. "Evelyn, I thought I told you to distribute the food."

The oldest girl's voice was hard to hear, so I reached increased the gain on my stereophones. "Yes, Miss Tina, but it's the twenty-sixth."

I trudged forward, step by hard won step, reviewing why the date might be important. Specifically, I considered why the date would matter for dinner. Eventually I gave up. "Evelyn?"

"Yes, Miss Tina?"

"Why is the date important?"

"It's Thanksgiving, Miss Tina."

Humans have odd customs. According to my studies, immature ones were especially prone to outbursts if those customs are ignored. I referenced my long-term memory regarding the traditions of the Thanksgiving Holiday. Some leeway was permitted in the menu, but apparently a feast was called for. Somehow, I had to arrange a feast for a wagon load of children.

In the middle of Devil's Gate Pass.

The light, fluffy coating of snow coming down wouldn't help matters. Still, we were at the worst part of the pass now; if we could make it another mile, we would be on mostly flat ground again. Once we were out of the eastern end into the Native States, we would be under the protection of the finest light cavalry in the world.

The weight in the overloaded wagon shifted. The thick leather strap slid off my shoulder. I grabbed at it with my opposite hand, barely keeping the recalcitrant thing from slipping free of my grasp entirely. If that happened, the wagon and its precious cargo would go tumbling back down the steep mountain trail.

While I struggled to maintain my grip on the moisture-smoothed leather of the strap, cloth rustled behind me. One of the irrepressibly self-mobile portions of the cargo stuck her head out of the meager shelter provided by wood and canvas. "How much further do we have to go?"

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The child's whine scraped at my stereophones, and I wondered for the thirty-eighth time that day how human parents could possibly tolerate this without engaging in mass infanticide. After the fourth iteration of the discussion with myself, I concluded that human hearing must be tuned to a different register than my own.

Still, there was nothing else for it. I had a Duty to discharge, and that meant I could not leave the cluster of juvenile humans on the side of the road. In my estimation they were unlikely to survive long alone in this frozen mountain terrain. My Duty is to enforce the laws, defend the innocent, and advance the cause of justice in any way I can. If any human can be described as 'innocent', children generally qualify.

The leather connecting me to the wagon was old, covered in ox sweat and melted snow. I was too small for the harness to secure me properly, and the ox intended to pull the cart was far behind us, probably dead. Movement within the wagon's bed shifted the weight yet again, and the wet, slick leather slipped, inch by inch, through my grip. The children within let out excited little squeals with each jerk.

"I'm trying to write in here!"

Evelyn, the oldest child, grated less than the others. She was trying to keep a journal of her travels, a habit I'd encouraged as a way to deal with her mother's death. An admirable pursuit, but less than optimal timing.

"Evelyn, please do not be alarmed, but I believe I am about to lose my grip on the wagon."

The sudden silence from the wagon was blissful, despite the incipient tragedy that inspired it. The cloth on the side of the wagon rustled; I realized the children were trying to escape.

"Children! Stop!"

Young Angela listened about as well as I had come to expect. My shout served only as a goad to push her through the gap she'd opened between the cover over the bed and the sideboard of the wagon. When she finally turned her head away from me to look where she was going, a frightened squeak was the only noise that escaped her. She tried to scramble back into the wagon, but the side was too icy. Inch by inch, she slipped further down the wagon. When her grip failed, she would go straight over the cliff into the chasm that yawned below her.

Right at that moment, a human would have experienced a surge of adrenaline. I have no adrenaline, but my creator was not unaware of the need for a greater intensity of effort in an emergency. My control rods slipped down as the friction clasps holding in them in place ratcheted away. The kidskin covering my torso grew warm, the shielding beneath heating as it blocked the energy of decaying pitchblende.

The heat of decay pushed my boiler into overdrive, warmed the wax and wire that made my brain, and pushed me into action. Angles and masses merged into forces. Predictive algorithms engaged in my logic pathways, and my course became clear.

"Evelyn! Take care of the children!"

In one smooth motion I released the leather straps and leapt for the wagon. I landed on the wheel facing the mountainside with my full weight, gratified when it cracked under the sudden pressure. I leapt again, this time a shorter leap to the far side of the wagon. As it tipped sideways toward the mountainside, I grabbed Angela by the nape of her neck and tossed her toward the center of the cart. Evelyn would get her inside and keep her still, by sitting on her if need be. In the meanwhile I had one last problem. The wagon still slid down the path, my own weight dragging it toward the cliff.

I lashed out with one foot, hammering the far end of the axle into the mountainside. Action begat reaction, and I flew out into open air. As I took in the depth of the gorge beneath me, my wax and wire brain flashed over the decisions that had brought me to this end.