Founding of the Federation 3: The First AI War (29 page)

“What the hell?” Clive demanded, making him turn back out of curiosity. He snorted when he saw Clive stick his hand out to catch fat white and brown flakes. “Snow? Here?” Clive demanded. “Now I've seen everything,” he said in disbelief.

Fiben turned to see the curious look in Imda's face. But it was the concern and horror on Kelsy's that got his attention. She knew what he was realizing; they weren't set up for a blizzard. “Don't bet on it,” Fiben replied grimly.

<>V<>

“The weather's getting worse. We've got cold weather gear but not a whole hell of a lot, not enough to go around certainly,” Boomer said, eying the group. “We need to break out more blankets. We're also going to need people to go to the stores and other areas. Avoid the areas occupied. We're going to have to scavenge for food and gear.”

“You mean loot and steal?” his mother asked, clearly aghast at the idea. “An Aspin doesn't steal!”

“We do what we must to survive, Mom,” Boomer growled. He was done with arguments. He nodded to his father. His father nodded grimly back. “I'll form a group up around Agent Hallis and the others. We'll take volunteers. I'll try to leave some tough people behind for security though,” Boomer said.

“Understood. The truck in the barn had the battery out of it,” his father said, pointing to the beat-up rusted, and now acid-etched truck out in the open. They'd pushed it out even without tires to make room for the refugees, animal, and human alike. There was even a quartet of people inside the cab of the old ‘54 Chevy.

“That ole thing?” Ma Aspin asked, eying the wreck. “It belongs in a museum!”

“It's all we've got. We get some fresh tires on her, top off her fuel and fluids, get a battery in her, she should turn over,” Pa said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. All the men were growing their beards out now that it was staying bitter cold. The women didn't like it, but that was tough. “I tinkered with it with you kids a time or two. I reckon it'll turn over.”

“It's been a few years,” Boomer said, eying the heap. He'd cut his teeth learning to drive a real vehicle with the thing. It had been a brief run, with a sharp end at a trio of fence posts that his mother still didn't let him forget to this day he mused. A slight smile traced his face; a rare occurrence in the current time period after all that'd happened.

“I think she'll run. Take a small group—no more than three or four max. You might get a couple more to stand on the running boards, but they're shot,” Pa cautioned. “Best run light so you can bring back more, son,” he warned.

“Right. There is a warehouse what, fifteen, no sixteen clicks south of here?” Boomer asked. His memory was a bit foggy on it.

“Try twenty-six, son,” his father said. Boomer eyed him. His father shrugged. “I had to go there to pick up a couple of deliveries a time or two when they got uppity on the delivery charge back in ‘98. It should have everything we need, if it hasn't been cleaned out already.”

“Or blown up or if it's occupied,” Ma said darkly. Boomer glanced her way then away. “I know you have to go, son, but be safe,” she said, gripping his arm.

“I'm not gone yet, Ma,” he said. “Probably not till morning if the weather holds,” he said, looking at the truck. “That is if we can get the heap running.”

“Big if,” Agent Hallis said, coming into the room. “I heard the last part. Want to fill me in? Supply run I assume?”

“I think you are mostly up to speed. I'll get the rest, and we'll fill in the blanks together while we see what tires we can get on that thing,” Boomer said, headed out to the truck. “But first,” he stopped and spun in place for a moment before he changed direction. He headed back to the barn.

“What?” Hallis demanded.

Boomer turned back to him. “I gotta find a jack!” he called back, throwing up his hands in annoyance. It had been a while since he'd worked on the old truck, a long while. It had been passed on from one generation to the next. Some had returned it to stock; others had customized it. Twice it had been converted to electric before being returned to gas. Once it had been a hydrogen engine. He'd preferred diesel since they could make biofuel right there on the farm. He made a note to check the truck's fluids and systems carefully before they headed out. The last thing they wanted was a breakdown.

Hallis snorted and returned on his march to the truck. With any luck it might be his ticket out of the area. As he got closer though, and saw the cracked windshield, taped interior, and birdshit, he wasn't so sure.

<>V<>

Saul set himself up as a warlord with his security people as the nucleus of a new force. His men went along; any sign of leadership, of someone having a plan and knowing what to do, they clung to.

Megan Su was a different story however. The woman was in shock by the upset to her world, hysterical. If he'd had the inclination, he would have done something to snap her out of it, or put a bullet in her head to put her out of his and her misery. But she might prove useful so he kept her alive.

She was a good fuck; he'd found that out after the third night. Not as good as some others but good enough for the moment. He needed something to get his frustrations at how the world had turned out of his system, however briefly. She was a receptacle to that, willing or not he didn't care.

She clung to him though, which irritated the hell out of him. He was eventually forced to chain her like a dog to get clear of her. She was an extra mouth to feed, pussy, but not worth the drain on his meager resources if she couldn't be of some use to them. He could get pleasure from his hand if he had to do without her after all.

“Boshimoy
, what have I gotten myself into?” Saul asked looking at the mess around them. He'd set up in one of the warehouse stores. It was a good place to be, plenty of food and material to use to survive. And best of all, people came to him and were willing to trade anything once they realized they couldn't bluster or shoot their way in. There was something to be said about being a hard-faced Russian mobster with gunmen to back him up.

One of the first things they'd done when they had taken up residency was smash all the robots. Anything electronic had been destroyed in an orgy of violence. Saul hadn't allowed them to use their weapons, so they'd taken turns with baseball bats and fire axes. They'd gotten the job done though. The bits were piled in the corners or outside.

He was careful about who he let in; he wanted supporters, not potential competition or traitors. That was difficult; he didn't know who to trust. Charlie he did, but only because the guy had led him to a gun stash. The guy had turned over a couple dozen rifles, including a police sniper rifle. He also had turned over thousands of rounds of ammunition. All of it would come in handy; though he wished from time to time that he and his men had some trusty submachine guns. Those were good for an intimidation factor with the refugees.

Megan was a pain in the ass about the situation, wanting to take everyone in. She didn't understand they couldn't feed everyone. Only the fittest, the strongest were meant to survive. He intended to be that. To be on top of the
der'mo kucha
, the shit pile, even if it was only a shit pile. “Better to be the guy on top than the one on the bottom,” he said then chuckled at his own wit.

When Megan started to get uppity, he raised his hand to backhand her. She instantly dropped her head, snuffled, cringing away. Her tiny hands shook as she popped the ball gag that had been dangling around her neck into her mouth. She looked up with sad, frightened eyes then shuffled away from him.

Saul snorted. He'd found the damn adult store by chance and made her go through it to find the gag and some other shit to use on her or any other problem people they ran into. The gag was turning into her pacifier; she seemed calmer with the thing in.

She was definitely calmer with it in when they had sex. He didn't call it rape; he thought of it as her paying for room and board. She was a screamer, and tended to cry when she had sex with anyone. Only the gag stifled her down to whimpers and moans. Saul had to admit, those were turn ons for him.

She was learning to give better head. She'd damn well
better
learn, he thought in disgust. She was little good for anything else other than entertainment. It wasn't like they
needed
a marketing director. He snorted at the thought. About all she was good for was tail and getting into tight places. A tight
Kiska
… he snorted at his own thought and shook his head.

She was also good as bait. Twice he'd chained her out, naked with her marks evident for someone to find. He'd ended up picking off a couple of robots and two scavengers that way. He'd almost been tempted to let them have the girl before killing them, but no. He didn't need any damn STDs.

He'd set himself up in the offices, the manager's office. The guy who'd previously owned it had objected, briefly. They hadn't bothered to cover the bullet hole. He had gotten Megan to clean the blood up however.

He didn't quite like the office. It was pretty Spartan and definitely not where he would like it since it overlooked the warehouse and only had one way in or out, but it would do for now he thought, sitting in the chair. Pasha had found him a box of cigars in one of the totes. He looked longingly at them but held off. He'd promised himself to ration them carefully since those were the only ones they had been able to find.

Also vodka. He had a couple of bottles here. Not enough. Not for the winter that was approaching. He limited himself to a single shot in the evening. Okay, he was fooling himself, but he didn't care. He was the boss, so he did as he pleased.

More and more of the refugees were coming in scared with stories of robots. He turned and spat his head. That was all they needed, the damn robots. He shook his head, but he kept a wary eye on the sky as well as the ground around them. Anytime he was outside he felt hunted. That was not right; he was the
Okhotnik
, not the prey.

So far the worst robot they'd come up against had been a lifelike raptor in a bellhop's uniform. The thing had been amusing at first; he'd seen one in a couple Asian hotels back in the day. But this thing moved like a real raptor and had taken a couple of shots to go down. Not before tearing some poor kid's throat out, however. Stupid little
Der'mo
had gotten too close. James had said he'd done it to impress a girl. Saul had taken a piss on the dead boy's body.

“That Charlie guy's got some good ideas, boss,” Vanna said, shouldering his weapon. “He's been making some noises about firing lanes and such. Making obstacles and a wall out there,” he indicated the street. “Maybe even following Pasha's idea and hitting that restoration garage he knows about.”

“Garage? The cars won't work,” Saul replied, waving the idea away.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Vanna replied. He tried to feign a Russian accent but Saul knew better. The little
poddelka
was from Jersey City. Granted the Russian side, but he was not from
rodina
, the motherland. A place he would most likely never see again he thought. So be it.

“I'm not sure I like Charlie doing things without clearing them with me,” Saul rumbled.

“He's got initiative, boss. He's looking out for all of us,” Vanna said. Saul eyed him, hiding his disgust. His cold eyes made the other man look away. For some looking at Saul was like looking at a predator, in this case a Russian wolf or bear. Scraggly bear with the beard, he thought, rubbing the growing stubble. It itched.

“Make sure we have a clear path in case of trouble. At least two,” Saul ordered. “I'll get with Pasha on the garage. He can take Charlie and some of the useless
Der'mo
with him in the morning. They can scout a route, see if it is viable and what they can get,” he said. “A torch would be nice,” he admitted. “Tools …,” He shrugged.

“On it boss,” Vanna said with a nod. He glanced at the line to the kitchens. They were using the staff kitchens of course, but they had set up an area nearby for people to sleep using bunk beds and other furniture from the furniture warehouses nearby. It was comfortable if cold. “Boss, can we do something about the temp? I know we can't burn much. We've got the stoves and such, but …,” He waved a hand. His breath clouded in front of him. “We should think about lowering the ceiling or something,” he suggested.

The Russian grunted. “Too much work,” he admitted, sizing the job up. Besides, he was no engineer; he didn't have the mind to do that. Talk to the others. See what they say. Pass out more blankets. Or better yet, get someone to warm them with you,” he suggested slyly.

Or some Vodka?” Vanna asked with a grin. Saul had reserved all of the vodka they had found for himself. “I'll see what I can do. There is a pretty blond around here somewhere,” he said making grabbing motions with his hands as he moved off.

Saul snorted in disdain as he turned away. “
Durak
. I am surrounded by nothing but fools,” he muttered, reaching for the nearby vodka bottle.

<>V<>

August 10, 2200

Elliot was used to being called the boss. He had been jokingly called Rambo from time to time by those who knew what he'd been through on Earth. Not one called him Moreau. Those who knew why knew better. Those that didn't got a short and rather unexpected education. Oh, he didn't break them … much, but he did give those he couldn't get his hands on a rather cold reception.