The Twain Maxim (23 page)

Jane was alerted as soon as the drop was executed. She sat up sharply, which woke Jim in the next tent. He had been flitting in and out of sleep all night and he knew immediately that she was awake.

She was experiencing two emotions: excitement and guilt. The excitement came from the notification on her arm that the drop had happened, and the guilt from what she had said to Jim before turning in. “I’ll join you in your tent when I smell as high as you do and that might never happen.” The look on Jim’s face as the zipper went down had made her instantly regretful of her quip. It was like a light slap to the face that resulted in a broken tooth. Not the outcome that had been meant, or the level of pain she had sought. She hated feeling sorry.

She pulled the night-sights out of her pack and strapped them on, then looked out of the tent into Jim’s night-vision goggles. “Going somewhere?” she said.

“For a moonlight stroll with you.”

“Can you keep up?”

“You in a big hurry?”

She waved her arm display. “I’ve only got a heading not a firm distance.”

“That’s primitive.”

“OK, it’s a mile from here.”

“No hurry, then.”

She stood up. “OK, let’s go.”

“Just let me change the batteries on these.”

She almost said something hard but held herself in check.

A couple of minutes elapsed.

“Are you going to be much longer?” she said, with exasperation.

“Nearly got it,” said Jim, having finally found the fresh batteries. “Two minutes.”

Jane looked around to find Pierre behind her. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“So am I.”

“Can you see in the dark?”

“Sure,” he said. “Can’t you?”

“When I need to.”

“Me too.”

“This could be dangerous.”

“My middle name is Dangereux,” he said.

The night-sight was a definite barrier between Pierre and the deadly look she threw him.

“OK, Dangereux,” she said, “you can come too.”

Jim stuck his head out of the tent. “Ready,” he said. “Oh, hold on.” He ducked back. “Forgot the GPS.”

“I’ve got one,” said Jane.

“Don’t need one,” said Pierre.

Jim and Jane looked at him.

“Sheesh,” said Jane, “it’s an Eagle Scout outing.” She looked at her arm display, which shone in the infrared.
“Follow me, guys, and don’t fall behind or get lost. If you do, it’s ninety minutes until sunrise, so stay put and I’ll come get ya later. Whatever you do, don’t go wandering about lost.”

Jim looked at Pierre, who shrugged in the fluorescent green light of Jim’s headset.

They set off. It was uphill but the going was lighter than usual so the two factors together made for a trip of about fifty minutes. A lot of things were moving around in the jungle at night. Creatures low to the ground were snuffling and animals in the trees were shuffling about. They would freeze as the party approached in the belief that the stillness and dark would shield them. That was before the human ape had become an infrared augmented Cyborg and before man melded with machine. This had made the rest of the animal kingdom obsolete and only useful for TV shows or snack food.

Fifteen thousand generations ago humanity had branched from the rest of life on earth, and barely one generation ago it had grown the next branch – it was no longer a solely carbon-based life-form like the rest of creation. Silicon let Jim and Jane see in the dark and made life possible in their world, and silicon was about to change it forever as it integrated itself into the wet carbon of flesh.

Jim saw a large black container, the size of a wardrobe, lying on the jungle floor.

Jane was looking at her display. “We’re on top of it but that’s not the one we want,” she said.

“Yoyoyo,” called Pierre behind them.

They turned. Pierre was sitting on another container, smaller, like a large steamer trunk.

Jane returned to her display. “That’s it?”

“What is this stuff?” said Jim.

“It may shock you,” said Jane, “terrify you, and it may save your life.” She pressed a button on the arm-display control. There was a cluck and the lid of the steamer truck lifted, throwing Pierre into the bushes behind him. He was shouting something in a language Jim didn’t recognise.

“Sorry,” said Jane.

They went to the trunk.

Pierre was already there and peering in. There was a stack of four M4 carbines and boxes of ammunition. There were rations, grenades and a small bright yellow box that glowed with fluorescence. Pierre reached forwards for a carbine. Jane slapped his hand.

“No,” she said, “that’s not for you.”

“Awww.”

“He’s handy with a Kalashnikov,” said Jim.

“Just one goddamn moment,” said Jane. “You need to see something.” She tapped her panel and the top of the yellow box opened. She took out a set of controls from its padded socket and put it into her pocket. Then she took out a bag of plastic blobs. She opened it and removed what looked like a plastic lozenge.

“OK. Your life is going to depend on one of these so listen up. Snap off the end.” She ripped something off the bottom of the fob, then ran the open end under her arm and down the side of her face. “The tab now has my DNA and my chemical signature.” An LED was blinking green on the lozenge. She took off her night-sights. “You see this light flashing? With your thumb on the dimple, point the light at your face with a straight arm. Press the dimple hard for three seconds.” There was a flash. “The fob now has my
face.” She handed one each to Jim and Pierre.

Jim had trouble finding the bit to break off but Pierre was quickly dabbing his armpit and scratching his face. He held the fob up at arm’s length and there was a flash.

“Got it,” said Jim. He was giggling as he scratched his face with the fob, then smiled at the tiny camera as it took its picture. The sun was coming up.

“Now, whatever you do, wherever you go, do not be parted from this device. Put it in your safest pocket.” Jane undid her dog-tag necklace and threaded the fob through it. “I’ll show you why.” She took the control from her pocket and switched it on. She aimed it roughly at the large container twenty metres away.

There was a mechanical clunk. The lid rose and three sides tried to fall away but the undergrowth stopped them. The front wall lodged on the trunk of a tree. A fluid, sticky and gelatinous, began to pour out and they heard a whining, chugging noise.

“Just wait and stay very still. Try not to make any noise or sudden movements. Got that, Pierre?” she said. “It applies to you too.”

“Yes,” said Pierre, as an erratic banging issued from the container. Someone or something was trying to get out. With every shudder, ooze poured out and ran down the hill in a slick.

Now a desperate thrashing noise came from within the crate and the container began to shake from side to side, the walls falling further away with each frantic blow. Suddenly another furious blow freed the front wall, which fell open with a gush of oily jelly flopping forwards into disintegration. A long, dark form, like a giant dog, black and
dripping, jumped around on tiptoe and stepped menacingly out of its cave.

“What the fuck is that?” said Jim.

“It’s a Doombah,” said Jane, “and it’s coming over to say hello. With a bit of luck, it won’t kill us.”

Pierre grabbed Jim’s shoulder and Jim found he was holding Jane’s hand. Without a doubt she was holding his too. The black machine was walking slowly towards them, liquid pouring from its body. After every two steps it would shiver and throw off more glutinous liquid. In Jim’s headset he could see the two cameras on its head moving backwards and from side to side, in focus at one moment and out the next. He pulled off his night-sights to see it in the growing daylight. Its four spindly legs were like those of two cartoon men carrying a long box, one walking backwards, another forwards. It was nimble yet ungainly, robotic yet animal. He felt as though his gut was about to react violently to the parrot stew, but it was the evil-looking machine, not last night’s dinner, that was threatening his dignity.

The Doombah looked at them one at a time, flashing lasers over them, rather like a supermarket checkout registering a barcode.

There was a buzz and a sudden high-pitched whirring.

“Damn,” said Jane, as two Gatling guns rose from the body of the machine. Her hand was squeezing Jim’s so tightly he almost cried out in pain. “Just don’t move,” she hissed.

The Doombah was fixating on the M4 by her side, the barrels of the Gatlings rotating in a blur. “Shit,” she said, and pressed something on the control panel.

The Doombah started and the Gatlings slowed. There was
the buzz of servos and the guns disappeared into the body.

“What was that?” said Jim.

“Nothing,” she said.

“Don’t tell me it was nothing.”

“Aaaah!” She groaned. “I had to upload our data. I just figured that out. I’ve got no training on this crap. It’s not even in Alpha. It isn’t meant to exist. I hate this goddamn tech.”

“Thank God you…” began Jim.

The Doombah stepped forwards.

“What’s it doing now?” Jim’s voice held more than a shade of panic.

“Don’t know,” said Jane. “Just let it do its thing. If it doesn’t like us we’re probably toast.”

The robot was up close to her, buzzing as if a model aeroplane was trapped in its body. It seemed to sniff her.

“Think it’s verifying me.” She held her hand out to it and it moved close to her palm, then jumped sideways, like a horse, to Jim, “Good boy,” said Jim. “
Gooood
boy.”

It didn’t seem to need to get so close to him. “Is this thing sniffing me?” he asked.

“Probably,” she said. “It runs heuristics. Gun, no tag, kill. No gun, no tag, deal with object with gun no tag. It’s collecting data. It’s probably taking time to get to know us, its three tagged friends.”

The Doombah was sniffing Pierre now.

“That’s good,” said Jane. “I just gave us high priorities for defence.”

The machine jumped back. “Jane, Jim, it’s Bill. Can you hear me?” it said.

“Fuck me,” said Jim.

Pierre had fallen over backwards.

“Good to hear you, Jim,” said Bill. “This shit might just work. I’m not getting good pictures. In fact, to tell you the truth I’m not getting jack, only audio.”

“Can you hear me crapping myself?” asked Jim.

“Don’t worry, these boys are fully tactical. They can do a better job than us and do it in real time.”

“Great,” said Jane, “but this thing nearly just blew me away.”

“Relax,” said Bill, “you’ll be fine. One of these has never gone blue on blue before. Admittedly that’s because it’s never been used in a real mission but, hey!”

Pierre was crouching down staring intently into what passed for eyes on the Doombah.

“I’m going to crack the cases now, and Will and I will set up the Doombahs,” said Bill. “As soon as they’re in position you can set off for the RV at the mine, whatever’s left of it when we’re done. We’ll get you in position by night for the end run in the morning. I’m going to vaporize the camp at midday – don’t want you anywhere near when we drop the rod. It should be cool and kind of peaceful by the time you get there. A chopper will come by and take you to Kigali and you’ll be home for cocktails in thirty-six hours.”

The Doombah jumped up and down on the spot. “Hah,” came Bill’s voice, from somewhere near what passed for its chest, “it does emoticons.”

“Cool,” said Jim, sarcastically.

Jane stripped off her night-sights – the sun was rising fast.

Pierre, the happiest boy alive, was riding the Doombah like a horse, a matt M4 carbine slung on his shoulder. It was a
hybrid, driven by a small petrol engine that charged a battery that powered the system. When the battery was full it ran silently, only the sound of metal joints clacking to give it away. It could sit still, like a sentry, for two days and recharge itself with four hours of engine time. Petrol held far more energy than any battery and the Doombah could be refuelled with ease. “Big Dogs” were the cavalry of the future – cavalry without riders, except occasional grateful passengers.

There was no one in the camp when they returned except Kitson. He crawled from his hut as soon as he heard them, lay on his side and propped himself up on an elbow. He looked incredulously at the Doombah. “Good Lord,” he said weakly.

“You’re riding out on this,” said Jane. “It can be rigged as a stretcher.”

“If you say so,” said Kitson, too frail to argue.

“I can fix you up with some diamorphine,” said Jane, “and you won’t feel a thing. You’ll just lie back and sail home.”

“I guess this is what’s scared off Alan and the tribe,” said Kitson, watching the beast stare at him.

“Hold still,” said Jane, breaking the end off a fob. She ran the tab over his chest and the light went green. “Smile,” she said, and snapped him, then pushed the fob into his tattered trouser pockets. “Don’t lose that,” she said. “I don’t think it shoots people without metal weapons, but let’s not test that out.”

Jim heard a rustle and looked up. The pygmies were up in the trees, dozens of them, hanging from the branches. He waved. Some were climbing down, dropping like circus acrobats with an almost superhuman grace and poise. “How do they do that?” he muttered.

“Power to weight ratio,” said Jane, “and I guess if you try and fail you never get to have little itsy-bitsy pygmy babies.”

The whole village was coming down out of the trees. They were surrounding them, staring silently at the Doombah.

Alan was speaking and Pierre translated. “He says the forest is full of soldiers and demons so we must flee to the trees.”

The Doombah looked like a demon to Jim, so he understood exactly where the pygmy chief was coming from.

“Tell them,” said Jane. “Do not fight the demons and they will not hurt you.” Pierre took it sentence by sentence. “Do not hold metal if they are near you. Do not throw anything at them. Do not try to scare them away. If you see them, walk away. Only if you attack will they attack. If they attack you, you will die.”