The Seeds of Man (35 page)

Dirt was still falling when a group of riders appeared on the other side of the bridge. Someone fired at them, and Crow, who was peering through a pair of binoculars, ordered them to stop. “It’s Voss,” Lora said as she peered through her scope, “and Miss Silverton.”

“Miss
who
?” Tre wanted to know, but the question was preempted by a much-amplified voice.

“This is Luther Voss,” the man said as he raised the bullhorn to his lips. “I wish to speak with Anthony Silverton.”

Tre watched in amazement as Crow rose from his hiding place and stepped out onto the road. He didn’t have a bullhorn, but his voice carried well. “I’m Silverton.”

“I have your sister.” Their horses were side by side nearly touching.

Tre stood, made his way over to Crow’s side, and waited to see what would happen next.

“Cross the bridge,” Voss said, “and give yourself up. You will hang, but your sister will live, as will your followers. I can always use more slaves.”

“Don’t do it!”
Sara Silverton shouted as she stood in her stirrups.

Crow was clearly torn. No matter what he did, other people would suffer. Then, as Crow opened his mouth to speak, Voss’s right hand came around. He was holding a pistol and it struck Sara’s forehead. Her body seemed to fall in slow motion. Crow shouted something incomprehensible, drew his pistols, and began to run. His intent was clear: to cross the bridge and kill Voss, regardless of the cost.

But Tre knew it wouldn’t work. The whole idea was to provoke Crow and to bring him into range. Bullets kicked up puffs of dust all around Crow as Tre shot him in the right leg. Tre shouted, “Blow the bridge!” and began to run.

Smoke had the remote. Would she obey? And if she did, would the charges go off? They’d been in place for a long time. There was no way to be certain as Tre grabbed one of Crow’s arms and began to tow him to safety. A woman named Dusty took hold of the other arm.

Both rescuers were thrown to the ground as a massive explosion tore the bridge apart. Splinters of wood whirred through the air like daggers, beams gave way, and wreckage splashed into the river.

The noise scared Odin, who reared up, brought both front feet down, and nearly threw Voss from the saddle. Maybe, if the horse hadn’t been moving, Voss would have noticed the arrow. Freak had fired it high, so that the shaft was little more than a speck at apogee but took on more substance as it fell. Voss felt the full force of impact as the hunting point sank deep into his flesh. Then, as the food lord wondered how such a thing could happen to him, he fell to the ground.

Tre was back on his feet by then. He looked at Freak with open admiration. “That was amazing.”

“He was a bad man,” Freak said, and walked away.

Tre was still in the process of absorbing that when Lora appeared next to him. “They’re pulling back,” she said. “You stopped them.”

“Freak stopped them,” Tre replied. “They’re mercenaries, and without Voss, there’s no reason to fight.”

Lora looked up at him, and just the sight of her was enough to make his heart ache. “I have to go north,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” he replied. His hand found hers, and together they stared across the river. A cold breeze tugged at her hair. Winter had arrived.

By

CONFIDENTIAL
Calag Inc. Board Eyes Only

…So by keeping sentient staff to an absolute minimum, and by making maximum use of robotic support systems, the company will minimize expense, maximize profits, and achieve an ROI of at least ten percent. With that in mind I think the board will agree that the negative psychodynamics described by PERSPSYCH STAFF will be more than off-set by Calag’s ability to build market share…

(Excerpted from PRESPERS EYES ONLY MEMO CS/CC-876921.)

Calag Planet 4782/X

R
ogan awoke to the sound of rain pounding on the plastiform roof. Not the gentle rain that was scheduled to fall each night, but a downpour that could expose vulnerable roots, and fill rivers to overflowing. Damn.

He threw the covers aside, rolled out of bed, and stood. He had short kinky black hair, a slim body, and a determined chin. He paused to listen for a moment then strode towards the door. It hurried to get out of the way. The dimly lit hallway, living area, and entryway led out onto the porch. Lightning strobed the distant hills and thunder rolled as Rogan padded down the steps to the duracrete veranda. The rain pelted his naked skin. He touched the com link located under the right corner of his jaw. “Wally? You there?”

• • •

Wally, better known to his mother as Walter Prescott Dugan Jr., was in orbit 250-miles above the planet’s surface. And, while he wasn’t asleep, he wasn’t exactly awake either. He released .05 cc worth of stimulant into what remained of his bloodstream and waited for it to kick in. “Yeah, I’m here. Where the hell else would I be?”

Though normally sympathetic Rogan was in no mood to indulge the cyborg’s taste for self pity. “It’s raining Wally. It’s raining hard. What happened?”

Rogan had been known to drink once in awhile, especially when lonely, and Wally wondered if he was sloshed. But a quick check of the instrument package built into Rogan’s house confirmed that it was not only raining, but raining hard.
Too
hard. Something was wrong. Wally ran a systems check.

Like most agricultural planets Calag 4782/X was equipped with a computer controlled weather system. And, like most ag planets, it worked about half the time. But that didn’t stop the suits from modeling Rogan’s quotas on the optimistic specs provided by the system’s manufacturer--or bombarding him with nasty memos when production levels dropped. All of which added up to a planetary manager (PM) who stood in the rain and drank too much.

Wally had been linked to the computer so long he didn’t know which part of his mental capacity was his own and which part belonged to the company’s Systems Group. And it really didn’t matter since an accident had destroyed his body and reduced him to little more than a brain. Which when combined with the latest in bioelectronics made good money by living in orbit and supervising the planet’s electro-mechanical systems.

Once retrieved and analyzed the data said it all. The cyborg kept it short. “A hurricane veered off its projected track and brushed the coast two hundred miles east of Chateau Rogan. The good news is that the rain should taper off in an hour or so.”

• • •

Rogan held out his hand. Had the rain slackened? He wasn’t sure. Well, nothing could be done till first light. He looked upwards and blinked when rain drops hit his eyes. “Thanks, Wally. Sorry if I was a jerk.”

Wally smiled, or would have had he been equipped with lips. “Forget it. Besides…who ever heard of a PM that
wasn’t
a jerk?”

Rogan laughed, shivered as a light breeze slid across his skin, and headed for the house. His feet were big,
too
big some people said, and water splashed away from them. The house ate him in a single gulp. It was huge and empty. Most of his peers had families, including a mate, two or three kids, and a menagerie of pets. That’s why management built identical six bedroom mini-mansions on all of their ag planets. It was the kind of “one size fits all” solution that strategic planners loved. The problem was that the empty rooms served to amplify Rogan’s loneliness. He considered a drink but rejected the idea in favor of lights and music.

The central computer heard his command, turned the lights up, and triggered a Johnny Cash album. It was hundreds of years old but the sound was crystal clear. The house comp automatically passed the sound to Wally who didn’t enjoy retro music but liked to spy on Rogan. And so it was that the cyborg watched the sun rise over the western hemisphere to the strains of
“I Walk The Line.”

Rogan entered the shower, ordered the water on, and savored the immediate warmth. Then he inched the water temperature up until it was just short of scalding. It was there, under the rush of hot water, that Rogan had some of his best ideas. And, what with an already weak wheat harvest and a rogue rainstorm, he could use some. None were forthcoming however. So Rogan left the shower cleaner but no wiser. A robot scooted in behind Rogan to scrub the shower down.

Clothes weren’t a necessity since Rogan was the only human being on the planet and the climate was generally temperate. But he wore some anyway. His usual uniform consisted of a faded University of Nulon T-shirt, blue shorts, and hiking boots.

In keeping with the rest of the house the kitchen was enormous. The auto chef served him a cup of tea and a bagel with cream cheese. The same breakfast he ate every day. Rogan carried the food to the work station he had established on the kitchen table. The house had a fully equipped office but it was lonely in there. The kitchen was warmer and smelled like food.

A quick check of his email showed that commodity prices were holding steady, animal protein was up a point, and metals were off a bit. It seemed that the company had named yet another vice president to join the army of executives on the corporate golf course, the competition had announced the release of a new vegetable, and the Nulon Alumni Association wanted a donation. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

Rogan took a bite of bagel, sipped his tea, and queried his private mailbox. Maybe, just maybe, there had been a reply to his ad. Nothing. Just a cursor blinking on and off. Rogan sighed, ran a check on the weather system, and carried his dishes to the sink.

• • •

Up in space and half a world away Wally shook his nonexistent head. He had read Rogan’s email at the same time Rogan did. The ad was a bad idea and the cyborg was glad that no one had responded to it. He couldn’t say that of course, not to Rogan’s face, but that’s the way he felt. The last thing he needed was a stranger wandering around, consuming Rogan’s time, and getting in the way.

Wally ordered one of his minisats to focus a telephoto lens on the front door of the house and waited for Rogan to emerge. The optics were so good that if his friend had a zit the cyborg would know.

• • •

Rogan blinked as he stepped out into bright sun light. Carefully mowed green grass slid down to meet an artificial lake. Bio-engineered insects skittered across the surface of the water and occasionally there was a splash as one of the pond’s trout had a snack. None of the fish had reason to fear a hook since Rogan lacked both the time and temperament to go fishing.

The air smelled fresh and clean. Rogan took a deep breath and felt his spirits rise. This was the part of the job that he liked the best. Roaming the planet and solving the fantastic array of problems that came his way. He touched the link. “So, Wally… What’s hot?”

The cyborg was ready with an itinerary. “I figured you’d want to survey the flood damage off the top. After that you can check on some stranded aniforms, hit the restart button on Harvey 451, and eyeball the apple harvest.”

Rogan frowned. “Hit the restart on Harvey 451? What the hell for? Send a droid.”

“Sorry,” Wally replied, “No can do. The idiots in purchasing bought Harveys 450, 451, and 452 at an auction when Nugumi Manufacturing went under. They got ‘em cheap,
real
cheap, but without any mods. So even though the droids were able to fix Harvey 451 it takes a living breathing bio bod to fire one up. Think of it as job security.”

Rogan was still swearing as he cut across the lawn to the duracrete apron and entered the support building. It was cool inside and smelled of lubricants. A number of transportation options were available to him, including a pair of twelve foot tall exoskeletons, three-wheeled ATVs, and a couple of grav trucks. Including the beat up unit he used almost every day.

Three robots had been assigned to maintain the equipment and the lead unit came out to greet him. In a fruitless attempt to make the spider-like machine seem more human Rogan had named it “Bob” and spray painted the name across the top of its otherwise pristine housing. He nodded in the droid’s general direction. “Morning, Bob. How’s it hanging?”

Like most of the planet’s more complex robots Bob had the capacity to learn what was important and what wasn’t. Meaningless greetings had no relevance to his duties and were ignored. “All vehicles are functional. Would you like a detailed report?”

Rogan walked by and servos whined as Bob turned to follow him. “Thanks, but no thanks. No offense old buddy… But your reports are boring as hell.”

If Bob was offended he gave no sign of it and watched impassively as Rogan circled the truck looking for telltale leaks or other problems. There were none.

So Rogan checked to make sure that his emergency supplies and tools were aboard and properly stowed. Nothing made him more angry than to wind up a thousand miles from nowhere minus a critical tool. The truck was about twenty-five feet long, twelve feet wide, and shaped like a wedge. It could reach an altitude of three hundred feet, cruise at four hundred miles an hour, and carry a five ton pay load. And with an entire planet to supervise that made the truck the most useful vehicle at his disposal. Sometimes, in order to cope with problems on the far side of the world, he was gone for weeks at a time.

Rogan palmed the hatch. There was a whining sound as it opened. The interior had a Spartan feel. A tool belt, a box of spare parts, and two bottles of water occupied the seldom used passenger seat. There were two bunks aft of that, a cramped lavatory, and a tiny galley.

Rogan felt around under an old leather jacket and found that the half empty bottle of Duncan’s Prime was right where he’d left it. Good. He wouldn’t have a drink. Not this early. But it was nice to know it was there.

Rogan ran his eyes over the control panel, started the ignition sequence, and listened as the anti-grav units wound up. They sounded nice and tight. It took thirty seconds for the power board to turn green and another thirty to complete a systems check.

The hum turned to a steady whine as Rogan taxied out of the support building and into the glare. The canopy darkened to compensate. There weren’t any other aircraft on the planet but Rogan went through the motions of checking with the air traffic computer before lifting off. He eyed the screens arrayed in front of him and waited until all of the buildings had dwindled to the size of toys before advancing the throttle. Having approved the coordinates downloaded from Wally he switched to autopilot.