The Little Green Book of Chairman Rahma (43 page)

Joss saw people outside the force-field shelter rising to their feet, some bleeding and groaning, others looking shaken. Many more lay on the ground, motionless like Evana.

To protect those who were with him inside the enclosure, Joss hesitated and looked in all directions through the fine mesh enclosing them. Warily, he lowered the shield and ran to Evana.

Kneeling over her, he saw to his relief that she was still breathing, but shallowly and intermittently. Her eyes were closed, and blood ran down the side of her head. He gripped her hand and called her name. “Evana! Evana!” But she didn't respond, didn't grip back.

Willem Mantle knelt by her, felt her pulse. “Her breathing is irregular,” he said. He motioned for Nanette, who appeared to only have scratches on her face and arms. “See what you can do for her,” he said to her.

“She used to be a nurse,” Mantle said to Joss as they watched the old woman tend to Evana, cleaning and disinfecting the wound on the side of her head as much as possible, then bandaging it and customizing a small air pillow for her head to lie upon. The injured young woman's eyes remained closed, but every few seconds her eyelids twitched.

Nanette passed smelling salts under her nose. Getting no response, she said, “I'm afraid she's in a coma. She needs a hospital.”

Joss knew that was impossible. The nearest facility was at least a hundred and fifty kilometers away, and they had no way to get her there. He shook his head sadly.

“Others need my help now,” Nanette said, “but I'll come back to her.”

She moved away to perform triage. All over the bloody field, people were tending to the wounded. Joss learned that Mord Pelley had been killed, along with more than half of the tribe and every anarchist except Acky Sommers and Kupi Landau—both of whom he saw nearby, looking stunned but uninjured. Seeing her, he felt relief.

Counts were made. Out of two hundred and thirty-nine people who originally set out on the trek, there were only seventy-four survivors—and of those, nine had serious or critical injuries, preventing them from moving around. Other than Nanette, only two other survivors had any medical knowledge: Mantle from his experiences in the woods, and a younger man named Fareed who had once worked at a sports-medicine clinic.

Joss sat cross-legged beside Evana, talking to her without getting any response, holding her hand, wanting to caress her but afraid to touch her face. Presently, Kupi came over and said, “I saw her grab the rifle of a fallen anarchist and fire it over and over before they brought her down. Your young lady is very brave, quite a warrior. She destroyed at least four robots on her own.”

Overwhelmed by emotion, Joss said, “I've barely gotten to know how special she is, and now she's…” He choked on the words, remembering how they had planned to marry. Desperately, he wished he could use his greenforming power to bring her back to health. Lying there in a coma, she looked so fragile, so near death. He felt completely helpless.

Kupi shook her head sadly and said, “I'm really sorry.” She touched him gently on the shoulder, then walked away to speak with Acky Sommers, who had been rounding up the weapons and ammunition, seeing what they could still use.

*   *   *

SINCE EARLY MORNING
Gilda had been in a state of agitation, flying around the administration compound, alighting on yurts and peering in windows, obviously searching for Rahma. Unable to locate him, the glidewolf had gone back into her subterranean habitat, escaping from it into the outer office and then attempting to burst through the double doors to the slidewalk that led to the underground bunker control room, where the Chairman actually was. But these doors held, even against multiple onslaughts by the powerful creature. Finally, the robotic lab workers managed to sedate her, drag her back inside the habitat, and lay her on a bed of eucalyptus leaves.

As Artie watched this, something far more important came up. High-security data began flowing into his computer mind, electronic information from the robots of the Nonhuman Defense System. Quickly, Artie hurried out to the slidewalk and rode it to the underground bunker control room beneath the administration building. On the way, he considered the new information, and added it to what he already knew.

For some time the nuclear weapons of Panasia and the Green States of America had been aimed at each other, and the hate-filled rhetoric had never subsided. Having absorbed a critical inflow of new data, the hubot calculated the disastrous probabilities. SciO and GSA operatives had compiled circumstantial, but persuasive, evidence that an imminent threat to the Green States of America came from their archenemies, the Panasians. The evidence was contained in detailed intelligence reports, submitted from all over the world, and subjected to probing analyses by humans and computer systems, including the robots in the Nonhuman Defense System.

Artie scanned more details, evidence that the Panasians had dramatically increased the number of nuclear warheads in their arsenal in the past year, and were close to perfecting a new defensive umbrella around their nation, designed to shoot down incoming missiles. Such technology had been attempted repeatedly since the late twentieth century (and the GSA had their own missile umbrella), but all known systems had flaws that made them porous, in varying degrees. Maybe the Panasian version would be defective as well, or maybe not. The hubot knew that, under normal circumstances, a perfect Panasian defensive shield would present serious problems for the GSA.

But these were not normal circumstances, because the GSA had a Sword of Damocles waiting to annihilate its Panasian enemies, a secret weapon orbiting high over the planet. Ready to fire, the immensely powerful Satellite Janus Machine changed the doomsday equation in a big way. It was certain to penetrate any defense system the enemy might have, and didn't have the downside from an environmental standpoint of a nuclear exchange. After wiping out the enemy with the satellite weapon, Chairman Rahma could simply greenform over them, thus returning their lands to the Earth.

Now the Chairman was in an adjacent office with the door closed, being tended to by Dr. Tatanka for a suspected case of the Panasian Flu that was hitting him hard. Rahma had been away for only a few minutes, and in a weak voice he'd said, just before departing, that he might be a little while. In recent days the hubot had been noticing the increasing sickness in his master's voice, and was alarmed by the sallowness of his skin and his bloodshot hazel eyes. The illness seemed to be draining the great leader of fluids; he was always thirsty.

Artie was very worried about Rahma's health, and shared his superior's suspicion that it was a virus that Premier Hashimoto's scientists had transmitted through infected documents sent to the Chairman—though no one had been able to prove this so far, because the papers contained no toxic residue.

Since yesterday, Dr. Tatanka had been using a regimen of experimental drugs for treatment—with no noticeable success. Rahma had been feeling poorly since he got up this morning, with deep muscle fatigue, intestinal problems, and severe headaches. Maybe this had something to do with the glidewolf's agitation. There seemed no way to tell, but the creature did sense things, and was very protective toward the Chairman.

Just then, Artie received another transmission across his circuits from the NDS, an announcement that he'd been dreading: A huge number of missiles had been launched by the Panasians, from land sites and nuclear submarines! NDS's automated weaponry had already responded within fifteen seconds by activating the GSA's defensive and offensive systems, taking measures to intercept the incoming missiles and launch additional nuclear GSA missiles against priority enemy targets.

Artie shouted for the Chairman, but got no response. The heavy door to the adjacent office was closed. He ran to it and pounded on it.

Still nothing.

The hubot pushed open the door, risking the wrath of his superior. To his dismay, he found no one in the room. He saw a door open on the other side, leading to a corridor.

For a moment Artie accessed an internal mapscreen of the world—his electronic viewing platform—showing that some of the enemy's front-running sub-launched missiles had already been intercepted and shot down. Less than two minutes had passed since he'd been notified by the NDS, and he was desperate to find his superior.

The hubot hurried through the door into the corridor, calling loudly for the Chairman. No answer came, nor did he see any sign of him. Where had he gone with the physician? Someone should have thought to maintain an electronic connection between them at all times.

I should have thought of it.

With the continuing stream of data, the NDS robots declared that all incoming missiles could not be intercepted, because the GSA's own umbrella defense system could not handle the surprising volume of missiles. Artie paused in the corridor to analyze the options, in coordination with the NDS. In a matter of moments the computer network determined that firing the Satellite Janus Machine would throw enough energy to confuse the guidance systems of the fast-approaching missiles and cause them to fall into the Pacific Ocean. The NDS robots were pressing for permission from the Chairman to act within another two minutes, to avert certain disaster. If he didn't provide countermanding orders in that time, then under the GSA Charter they would respond on their own.

In the Chairman's absence there were backup provisions, and Artie was responsible for the first line of them. With his unquestioned fidelity and skills, he was the one that Rahma trusted the most, not quite a sentient being but as close to it as a hubot could be—and he had been given important responsibilities. Artie only hoped he was up to the task. Many times he'd heard of the legendary exploits of the man whose eyes were implanted in his machine body, the organs of the heroic anti-Corporate warrior Glanno Artindale.

With only moments to answer the NDS, Artie shouted again for the Chairman. Still, he received no response. Rahma had not looked good at all today, and perhaps he required more medical attention, maybe even transportation to a hospital.

Precious seconds ticked by in which the hubot remained entirely calm, as he was programmed to do. Aided by the NDS, he evaluated every possibility, every danger, at hyperspeed—and saw only one option that made sense, one that would have huge consequences. With all of the data assembled and analyzed, he decided to fire the Splitter barrel of the orbiting SJM, along with the Seed Cannon moments afterward.

On his internal viewing platform the hubot opened the control panel and confirmed that the weapon was armed. He told the NDS robots to take careful aim, targeting the incoming missiles over the Pacific Ocean, as well as the Panasian continents of Australia and Asia beyond.

They did so, and fired.

 

48

On the left and right, zealots live in echo chambers,
seeking only to converse with people who believe as they do.

—Mord Pelley, political dialogues

JOSS SAT ON
the grass beneath the old oak tree, holding Evana's hand tightly, speaking to her in low, soothing tones.

The bandage on her head was bloody, and he worried about a grievous brain injury. Although her eyelids twitched every once in a while, she had not opened her eyes since falling in the battle.

A few meters away, Willem Mantle was talking to a group of survivors who had minimal injuries. “There's no time to bury the dead,” he said. “We need to move on as soon as the injured are tended to, and carry them with us.”

“What's the use?” a woman asked. “More robots will be sent to track us.”

“Maybe that won't matter.” Mantle looked over at Joss, said to him, “You've got more talents than we've seen so far, don't you?”

“You're thinking I could split and greenform behind us to get rid of our scents, aren't you?”

The old woodsman nodded, a grim expression on his face.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Joss said.

“We need to leave quickly,” Mantle said. “Let's get the wounded ready.”

Despite the urgency, Joss protested, “It's not right to leave the dead lying around for animals and carrion birds to tear apart. Out of respect for these people, we need to bury them.”

“He's right,” a man said.

“We won't be able to live with ourselves if we don't bury them,” Nanette said, walking past the group and standing by Joss. The elderly woman looked tired from all she had done to tend to the injuries of the wounded, with only minimal medical supplies.

“How's the young lady doing?” Nanette asked Joss, her wrinkled face filled with sadness and concern. Maybe she was thinking the same thing he was, that it could be dangerous to move Evana—but they had no choice.

Before he could answer, Evana gasped. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared straight ahead. To his horror she slumped over, and in his grip her hand went limp.

Nanette moved in quickly, turned the stricken woman onto her back, and with Joss's assistance administered cardiopulmonary resuscitation, trying to get her breathing and her heartbeat to resume.

“Breathe!” Joss shouted to Evana, after he held his mouth over hers to force oxygen into her lungs. “Breathe!”

They worked desperately without success, and Joss wanted to keep going. But finally Nanette stopped and said, “It's no use. I'm sorry, but she's gone.”

“No!” Joss exclaimed. For several minutes more he administered CPR by himself, pumping her chest and breathing air into her mouth. Finally he fell to his knees beside her, sobbing uncontrollably. He couldn't believe this terrible thing had happened; it was horribly unjust for Evana to have her life snuffed out at such a young age, with so much ahead of her. He had lost the most special person he'd ever met, or ever hoped to meet. Their dreams of marriage and a life together were shattered.