[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
into the datanet, to explore the nearby channels, to establish contact with
the independent systems it had already colonized.
It liked to think of itself as a disease with a genius-level intellect. The
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Black Plague, smallpox, malaria and AIDS were random blunderers, spreading
haphazardly through carelessly chosen vectors.
It was nice being the only bug on the block with an actual purpose in life.
The Summoner had charged it with a task, and it existed only to fulfil that
task, and to procreate until it was the only thing within its field of
perception.
Soon, it would be shooting down the line. Soon, it would be about the
fulfilment of its purpose.
Soon.
Part Four: Meeting Cute
I
The cruiser had been here. Stack could recognize the signs by now. Burning
buildings, wrecked ve-hickles, dead people. But his tracer was down. An hour
ago it had cut out and gone cold. He had been on a mountain road that only led
to this place, so he hadn't had any trouble keeping on the track.
The sign at the town limits said "Welcome, Ariz" and there was a statue of a
grinning Indian with his arms outstretched by it. But nobody was in a
welcoming mood when Nathan Stack showed up on his requisitioned hog.
There were a few people in the streets, dragging corpses and extinguishing
fires. This looked like the aftermath of a fair-sized firefight. Walls were
scarred with fresh bulletmarks. The smell of cordite was in the air.
Most of the activity seemed to focus on a saloon. The Silver Byte. There was
a row of motorsickles chained to the hitching rail. The machines bore the
Gaschuggers' colours. Not a few of the citizens mopping up wore the
distinctive overalls of the 'chuggers, patchworked with the badges of dozens
of car and gas companies. Slack hoped the gangcult would be too busy binding
their wounds to blame him for the mess his cruiser had made.
A dark-skinned man with a Zapata moustache and a gold tooth was directing the
salvage operation. The wounded were being triaged. One group were carried into
the saloon for medical aid. The other were being hauled to the local Boot
Hill, presumably for a merciful bullet.
Stack parked his motorcyke, and addressed the foreman.
"Did a driverless Cav cruiser do this?"
The man sneered and spat. "Si, Trooper. Thees ees so."
"Where is it now?"
He nodded fiercely. "Thee chorch. Eet keell thee padre."
Stack pulled off his borrowed helmet. His ears were tired of Wagner. He was
coming down from all the juju he had been shooting, and was beginning to feel
his lack of food, drink and sleep. This was the end of the trail for a while.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Is there anywhere to get a meal and a bed around here? The state will pay."
The man grinned bitterly. "Wee do not accept loncheon vouchers or
cashplastic, Trooper. Seelver dollars or pesos."
"I have metal money."
"Een that case, I serve you best cheellee you have in your life. An' yiu can
get a room over at Tiger Behr's motel. I am Pedro Annindariz. Seence Meester
Cass lose hees head thees afternoon, I guess I am Mayor of Welcome, Areezona.
Thees ees my saloon."
"Trooper Nathan Stack, at your service. Out of Fort Apache."
"Yiu a long way from home, yellowlegs."
Stack stretched, trying to dislodge the pain from his lower back.
"You're telling me. It's been a hell of a patrol."
"Theengs ain't been so good roun' here thees week, neither."
Shots rang out. Permanent anaesthetic they called it on the Cav training
courses. Stack had never had to apply the treatment, but had seen it done. It
wasn't pleasant.
"Start your chilli boiling, Pedro. I guess I better check out the church."
"Yiu can't meess eet. Jost follow thee holes een thee houses."
He could see what Annindariz meant. The cruiser had ploughed through the
whole town. One family were standing around, looking at half of their perfect
home, salvaging pots and pans from the rubble. Stack followed the tyre tracks
through the town to the church.
After he had checked out the scene there, he should try to find a phone or a
radio and report in. He knew Major General Younger would be having Siamese
kittens over this patrol. He wouldn't be surprised if a Cav helicopter gunship
were combing the mesas looking for them. If tradition was anything to go by,
Tyree would get a posthumous medal, and he'd be quietly court-martialled out
of the service. He needed some explanations.
St Werburgh's was a little way out of town. It stood in its own plot of land.
There were people digging in the graveyard, and a pile of bodies stacked
against a fence. A Gaschugger with his right forearm replaced by what looked
like a giant iron lobster claw was scooping earth out of a shallow grave.
"Looks like the well's up for grabs," someone said. A couple of Gaschuggers
were emerging from the church with sloshing buckets of water slung
peasant-fashion on wooden yokes.
He climbed the ruined steps and went into what was left of the church. There
were people there, standing still, but they weren't praying. They were
staring.
The cruiser was there, bellied up to the altar, and between them was a
crushed priest. He had been a big man, but he was a broken doll now, his head
lolling at an angle. The car had grown some sort of spear and stuck it through
him.
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"How are we gonna get him loose to bury him?" someone asked. It was a skinny
old man in shorts and a string vest. He had metal plates in his chest, his
skull and stomach. His entire left arm, his lower right arm and hand, both his
knees, his left foot, his right shoulder and his right eye were gone and
replaced. Lights flashed and wheels revolved inside him. He had been rebuilt
with durium-laced plastic, now badly scuffed, and old-fashioned robo-bits. He
would have been chinless but for a sharp jawguard. Half his skull was metal,
the other half still sprouted clumps of red hair.
"Yup, that's right, Trooper," the composite said. "Surf city radical, ain't
it? There's still some of me in here. Behr's the name. Tiger Behr."
"You own a motel?"
"Yup. That I do. I used to be an angel."
That sounded unlikely, especially in a church.
"Hell's Angel. Albuquerque chapter, 1965 to 1993. It was a life."
"I'm sure."
"We was macho men then, not faghaggs like these Maniax and 'chuggers and
such."
A couple of overalled youths muttered darkly. Behr laughed, opening his
mouth. He was toothless but for four metal prongs that replaced his eyeteeth.
"Now, there's more doodads than flesh 'n' blood. But I kin still lick anyone
in the house. Anyone."
"Consider me registered, Tiger. Now, stand back. I'm going to check this
out."
Everybody eagerly stood back. This was one of those rare occasions when
civilians were only too glad to obey orders. Stack warily approached the
cruiser. It seemed to be dead, but he didn't trust the thing to stay that way.
He had his gun out, safety off and one in the chamber.
There was a sudden creak, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He fought
the trembling shudder that ran through him. The rear door of the cruiser, bent
and buckled out of true, fell off. Inside, the upholstery was unmarked.
Kling's silvery jacket was bundled up, a scatter of powdered glass spread over
it.
Stack touched the car with his gunbarrel. It didn't move.
"Careful, Trooper," Behr said. "That there thing is mucho dangeroso."
He tried to feel any vibes that might be coming off it. He remembered how it
had seemed back at Slim's. It had been animated, exuding evil and viciousness,
spitting venom from the exhaust pipe. Now it was just another beat-up wreck.
"I think it's dead," he said.
"I don't care what frequency your brainwaves is on," spluttered Behr. "I saw
Carl Cass spread over a wall this afternoon. And I'm seeing poor ole Padre
Burracho pinned to his altar like a butterfly in a case."
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
He exposed the doorlock, and tapped in his personal entry code. Nothing. The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl wyciskamy.pev.pl
into the datanet, to explore the nearby channels, to establish contact with
the independent systems it had already colonized.
It liked to think of itself as a disease with a genius-level intellect. The
Page 46
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Black Plague, smallpox, malaria and AIDS were random blunderers, spreading
haphazardly through carelessly chosen vectors.
It was nice being the only bug on the block with an actual purpose in life.
The Summoner had charged it with a task, and it existed only to fulfil that
task, and to procreate until it was the only thing within its field of
perception.
Soon, it would be shooting down the line. Soon, it would be about the
fulfilment of its purpose.
Soon.
Part Four: Meeting Cute
I
The cruiser had been here. Stack could recognize the signs by now. Burning
buildings, wrecked ve-hickles, dead people. But his tracer was down. An hour
ago it had cut out and gone cold. He had been on a mountain road that only led
to this place, so he hadn't had any trouble keeping on the track.
The sign at the town limits said "Welcome, Ariz" and there was a statue of a
grinning Indian with his arms outstretched by it. But nobody was in a
welcoming mood when Nathan Stack showed up on his requisitioned hog.
There were a few people in the streets, dragging corpses and extinguishing
fires. This looked like the aftermath of a fair-sized firefight. Walls were
scarred with fresh bulletmarks. The smell of cordite was in the air.
Most of the activity seemed to focus on a saloon. The Silver Byte. There was
a row of motorsickles chained to the hitching rail. The machines bore the
Gaschuggers' colours. Not a few of the citizens mopping up wore the
distinctive overalls of the 'chuggers, patchworked with the badges of dozens
of car and gas companies. Slack hoped the gangcult would be too busy binding
their wounds to blame him for the mess his cruiser had made.
A dark-skinned man with a Zapata moustache and a gold tooth was directing the
salvage operation. The wounded were being triaged. One group were carried into
the saloon for medical aid. The other were being hauled to the local Boot
Hill, presumably for a merciful bullet.
Stack parked his motorcyke, and addressed the foreman.
"Did a driverless Cav cruiser do this?"
The man sneered and spat. "Si, Trooper. Thees ees so."
"Where is it now?"
He nodded fiercely. "Thee chorch. Eet keell thee padre."
Stack pulled off his borrowed helmet. His ears were tired of Wagner. He was
coming down from all the juju he had been shooting, and was beginning to feel
his lack of food, drink and sleep. This was the end of the trail for a while.
Page 47
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Is there anywhere to get a meal and a bed around here? The state will pay."
The man grinned bitterly. "Wee do not accept loncheon vouchers or
cashplastic, Trooper. Seelver dollars or pesos."
"I have metal money."
"Een that case, I serve you best cheellee you have in your life. An' yiu can
get a room over at Tiger Behr's motel. I am Pedro Annindariz. Seence Meester
Cass lose hees head thees afternoon, I guess I am Mayor of Welcome, Areezona.
Thees ees my saloon."
"Trooper Nathan Stack, at your service. Out of Fort Apache."
"Yiu a long way from home, yellowlegs."
Stack stretched, trying to dislodge the pain from his lower back.
"You're telling me. It's been a hell of a patrol."
"Theengs ain't been so good roun' here thees week, neither."
Shots rang out. Permanent anaesthetic they called it on the Cav training
courses. Stack had never had to apply the treatment, but had seen it done. It
wasn't pleasant.
"Start your chilli boiling, Pedro. I guess I better check out the church."
"Yiu can't meess eet. Jost follow thee holes een thee houses."
He could see what Annindariz meant. The cruiser had ploughed through the
whole town. One family were standing around, looking at half of their perfect
home, salvaging pots and pans from the rubble. Stack followed the tyre tracks
through the town to the church.
After he had checked out the scene there, he should try to find a phone or a
radio and report in. He knew Major General Younger would be having Siamese
kittens over this patrol. He wouldn't be surprised if a Cav helicopter gunship
were combing the mesas looking for them. If tradition was anything to go by,
Tyree would get a posthumous medal, and he'd be quietly court-martialled out
of the service. He needed some explanations.
St Werburgh's was a little way out of town. It stood in its own plot of land.
There were people digging in the graveyard, and a pile of bodies stacked
against a fence. A Gaschugger with his right forearm replaced by what looked
like a giant iron lobster claw was scooping earth out of a shallow grave.
"Looks like the well's up for grabs," someone said. A couple of Gaschuggers
were emerging from the church with sloshing buckets of water slung
peasant-fashion on wooden yokes.
He climbed the ruined steps and went into what was left of the church. There
were people there, standing still, but they weren't praying. They were
staring.
The cruiser was there, bellied up to the altar, and between them was a
crushed priest. He had been a big man, but he was a broken doll now, his head
lolling at an angle. The car had grown some sort of spear and stuck it through
him.
Page 48
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"How are we gonna get him loose to bury him?" someone asked. It was a skinny
old man in shorts and a string vest. He had metal plates in his chest, his
skull and stomach. His entire left arm, his lower right arm and hand, both his
knees, his left foot, his right shoulder and his right eye were gone and
replaced. Lights flashed and wheels revolved inside him. He had been rebuilt
with durium-laced plastic, now badly scuffed, and old-fashioned robo-bits. He
would have been chinless but for a sharp jawguard. Half his skull was metal,
the other half still sprouted clumps of red hair.
"Yup, that's right, Trooper," the composite said. "Surf city radical, ain't
it? There's still some of me in here. Behr's the name. Tiger Behr."
"You own a motel?"
"Yup. That I do. I used to be an angel."
That sounded unlikely, especially in a church.
"Hell's Angel. Albuquerque chapter, 1965 to 1993. It was a life."
"I'm sure."
"We was macho men then, not faghaggs like these Maniax and 'chuggers and
such."
A couple of overalled youths muttered darkly. Behr laughed, opening his
mouth. He was toothless but for four metal prongs that replaced his eyeteeth.
"Now, there's more doodads than flesh 'n' blood. But I kin still lick anyone
in the house. Anyone."
"Consider me registered, Tiger. Now, stand back. I'm going to check this
out."
Everybody eagerly stood back. This was one of those rare occasions when
civilians were only too glad to obey orders. Stack warily approached the
cruiser. It seemed to be dead, but he didn't trust the thing to stay that way.
He had his gun out, safety off and one in the chamber.
There was a sudden creak, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He fought
the trembling shudder that ran through him. The rear door of the cruiser, bent
and buckled out of true, fell off. Inside, the upholstery was unmarked.
Kling's silvery jacket was bundled up, a scatter of powdered glass spread over
it.
Stack touched the car with his gunbarrel. It didn't move.
"Careful, Trooper," Behr said. "That there thing is mucho dangeroso."
He tried to feel any vibes that might be coming off it. He remembered how it
had seemed back at Slim's. It had been animated, exuding evil and viciousness,
spitting venom from the exhaust pipe. Now it was just another beat-up wreck.
"I think it's dead," he said.
"I don't care what frequency your brainwaves is on," spluttered Behr. "I saw
Carl Cass spread over a wall this afternoon. And I'm seeing poor ole Padre
Burracho pinned to his altar like a butterfly in a case."
Page 49
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
He exposed the doorlock, and tapped in his personal entry code. Nothing. The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]