We Are Legion (We Are Bob) (Bobiverse Book 1) (21 page)

The first attempt was spectacularly unsuccessful—the axe acted like one of those tennis ball launchers you buy to throw a ball for your dog, with the axe blade playing the part of the tennis ball. Archimedes threw the now-empty stick down, reinforced my conclusion about the F-Bomb-analogue, and stomped off to look for his blade.

I took a few moments to check with the autofactory AMIs.

There were no problems on that front. The vessels for Marvin, Luke, and Bender were almost complete. I felt a moment of anxiety. It was great having company, especially given the nature of our shared project. I half-hoped one or more of them would decide to hang around instead of taking off for the stars.

Archimedes had found the tennis ball, er, hand axe, and was reattaching it to the stick, grumbling away in Deltan. I carefully catalogued the monologue. Very likely there were a lot of scatological and sexual references in there, and learning to swear in any language is always interesting.

His second attempt was better, in that the axe blade didn’t take off for parts unknown. But the stick had been intended for a spear, well, a pointy stick, and was too thin to serve as an axe handle. It bounced, rebounded, and twisted in his hand with every swing. Muttering darkly, Archimedes lay down the hand axe and stalked off.

He came back in a few minutes with a more robust handle, sat down, and went through the whole mounting sequence. This time, when he tried it, the axe produced a very gratifying
thunk
, and wood chips flew. Archimedes gave a
whoop
that needed no translation and finished cutting down the sapling.

He spent the rest of the afternoon gathering suitable specimens. I noticed that his selections were considerably straighter than most of the weapons used by the Deltans, and I wondered if this was because of greater discernment on his part, or if they’d simply been making do with what they could find.

In any case, Archimedes’ return to the camp caused a near-riot. Interestingly, Archimedes took a couple of token items in exchange, but mostly just gave away the pointy sticks to the biggest Deltans. This not only placed them in his debt but also ensured that the gorilloids would be given the warmest welcome possible on their next visit.

“Damn, that kid is smart.”

I jumped a little. I’d been so wrapped up in what Archimedes was doing that I’d forgotten all about Marvin.

“Yeah, he’s going to own the place by the time he’s full-grown,” I said. “And hopefully, he’ll have lots of opportunity to spread his genes.”

I can’t say that I looked forward to the next gorilloid attack, but I did look forward to the gorilloids maybe getting their asses kicked.

***

I noticed over the next week that the Deltans seemed to be eating better. Better cutting tools meant more tubers with less work, and better pointy sticks meant better hunting results.

The Deltans seemed to particularly favor something that I would consider a large wild-pig-analogue, with the same general feeding habits and sunny disposition. It took a half-dozen Deltans to bring one down, but the carcass would feed twenty or so Deltans for several days. Good return on effort.

Part of their strategy involved bracing the butt of the pointy stick against the ground or a rock or tree and letting the charging pigoid impale itself. Since the pigoids never seemed to learn, it was a dependable source of food. The new, straighter pointy sticks did a much better job and resulted in dinner with less effort overall.

Meanwhile, Archimedes had risen significantly in stature. He and his mother were now closer to the campfire, and the other juveniles were deferring to him. In fact, since Archimedes seemed to be pretty close to puberty, from what I could tell, some of the female juveniles were giving him a whole lot of attention.
Way to go, kid.

***

Then came the day I’d been both looking forward to and dreading. Another gorilloid attack. By now, Archimedes had armed everyone with the good pointy sticks, and the improved hunting prospects meant more adult males stayed home to guard.

A small group of gorilloids appeared out of nowhere and attacked group E. The Deltan females and cubs scattered, and the gorilloids seemed to somehow agree on a couple of specific victims to concentrate on. The gorilloids chased their chosen prey in groups of three. I noted in passing that they had chosen adult females rather than cubs. Maybe because the cubs were quicker, or perhaps because they provided less meat.

One of the female targets ran right through a pack of approaching males, with the gorilloids hot on her heels. The Deltans stopped, rammed the butts of their pointy sticks in the ground, and stood fast with as much courage as any medieval pikeman facing a cavalry charge. The effect was every bit as dramatic as I could have hoped for. The two leading gorilloids each took a couple or three sticks right in the chest. They were lifted into the air as their momentum converted to leverage on the sticks. As they hung suspended in the air for a moment, the gorilloids let out ear-piercing screams of agony. They came down to earth as their momentum reversed and fell over, still screaming. Although their huge arms still made them dangerous, the gorilloids were obviously badly wounded and couldn’t get up. The Deltans fell upon them with pointy sticks, and within seconds, the screaming had stopped. The third gorilloid of the group got a rush of common sense to the head and made for the trees.

The other group of three gorilloids had caught their intended victim but stopped when their compatriots started to scream. Now the Deltans, flush with their victory, rushed headlong toward the second group of gorilloids, yelling what were probably battle cries. The gorilloids were momentarily frozen with beastly astonishment but finally managed to figure out that something was different. Dropping their victim, they sprinted for the forest, empty-handed, in full rout.

The Deltans followed them to the edge of the camp, screaming and yelling. Again, I made careful note of the verbalizations. Pretty sure there were variations of “your mamma” in there. The first official English/Deltan dictionary would not be suitable for all ages if I had a say in it.

One of the Deltans, in an excess of zeal, hauled off and threw his pointy stick at the fleeing gorilloids. In one of those moments that change the universe forever, the stick flew a trajectory that would make an Olympic decathlete proud and buried itself in the back of the neck of one of the targets. The animal fell over like it had been pole-axed, and skidded face-down to a full stop. The other two didn’t even miss a step.

The Deltan defense force fell silent, and I discovered that slack-jawed amazement was probably a universal expression. A dozen Deltans stared at the dead gorilloid for several beats, then a dozen Deltan heads turned as one to stare at the spear chucker.
Oh, please shrug. Oh please, let a shrug be in their repertoire.
No such luck. I catalogued the ear movement as a probable shrug-analogue, swallowed my disappointment, and watched as the Deltans moved as a group toward the downed gorilloid.

“What’d I miss?” Marvin said, as he appeared beside me.

“Just watch the replay. You will
not
believe this.”

The Deltan spear chucker pulled his pointy stick from the dead gorilloid and poked it a few times. Getting no reaction, he turned to his friends and grinned. Not literally, of course, but I was getting used to interpreting the Deltan expressions in human terms.

They all started talking at once, jabbing the carcass, and slapping and hugging each other. After a few minutes, they picked up the carcass and carried it back to camp.

“Well, fair’s fair,” Marvin observed.

I laughed. “Now
that’s
payback!”

The Deltans ate well for the next few days. And gorilloids could be converted into many useful items, from hide strips to bone tools.

The spear-chucking story was the hit of the campground. Deltans were just as prone as humans to act things out, and every retelling had a rapt audience. The spear chucker got the lion’s share of the gorilloid that he’d taken down, and an apparent large bump in status. He looked tired but very happy.

Archimedes was fascinated by the story as well. Any time he saw or heard a retelling, he would run over to join the audience. Like many of the Deltans, he began to experiment with this technological innovation. The Deltans already understood throwing, but it seemed they’d never considered applying it to anything other than rocks. It was getting quite dangerous around the camp, until some of the elders put their collective foot down. After much yelling and gesturing, the experimenters took their sticks outside the camp to practice.

Unfortunately, even very straight pointy sticks didn’t fly dependably true. The spear-chucker really had been lucky. Very few spears actually stuck into anything when thrown, and some of the Deltans had already given it up as a fad.

Archimedes wasn’t having any better luck with his spear-chucking, but unlike the others, he took his pointy stick, sat down, and stared at it.

I knew that look. I’d worn that look many times. He was working it out.

It only took a few hours for Archimedes to find a flake about the right size, split the end of the pointy stick, and tie the flake onto it. The difference in weight wasn’t much, but it moved the center of gravity forward of the grip point. That was all that was needed. The next time Archimedes threw the stick, it embedded itself in the ground in a most satisfactory manner. The other experimenters watched as Archimedes repeated the result twice more.

After the third toss, one of the adults grabbed the spear and examined it. This resulted in another raucous town hall meeting. After Archimedes got his spear back, there was some further discussion. Then Archimedes headed off toward his cache with half the encampment following him. By this point, I was grinning like a fool.
You go, boy!

There was a lot more gabbling when Archimedes brought out his two remaining flint nodules. I think some people were angry with him for holding out. There was some pushing and shoving, and I readied the drone to bash some heads if necessary. We hadn’t deployed the buster drones yet, but I was quite prepared to sacrifice one of the light-duty units. I was certain that it would only take one to clear the room.

Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary. The Deltans that Archimedes had given the first, good pointy sticks to—the largest members of the tribe—were firmly on his side, and the others seemed understandably reluctant to challenge them.

One of the support group was a particularly impressive specimen that I had named Arnold. When Arnold leaned over an opponent and started yelling, there was generally very little further debate.

Arnold made a gesture and said something that included “get” and the name that the Deltans used for Moses. Several Deltans ran off, and a few minutes later, Moses was escorted over. It looked like he was being hustled along a bit more quickly than he really found comfortable. I could pick up a few words, and I’m pretty sure Moses compared the members of his escort to pigoid droppings. Smelly ones.

To the extent I was able to follow the discussion, it sounded like Archimedes would volunteer his nodules to make spear points for everyone, and in return he would get part of every kill from then on. Moses said something in an angry tone, and the agreement was amended to include him. I’m positive that I heard a comment to the effect that that wouldn’t be for long anyway. Moses looked offended but seemed otherwise satisfied. He and Archimedes set to work on the nodules, with half the camp watching.

1. Riker – September 2158 – Sol
   

I leaned back, my jaw dropping, as I watched the debate descend, yet again, into a yelling match. We now had forty-two distinct groups willing to maintain contact with us. Not all of them had bought into the emigration idea. Some were keeping their options open, and some just didn’t want to be left out of the loop.

But they all had two things in common—they didn’t trust each other, and they didn’t trust us.

At the moment, we were dealing with the Spitsbergen refuge. Technically they were part of the USE, but as they didn’t recognize Colonel Butterworth’s authority, that wasn’t getting us any mileage.

The issue at front and center right now was the Svalbard Global Trust. The existence of the vaults and their value for colonists had circulated quickly, probably thanks to the Spitsbergen group. Now Valter was playing his trump card. He was demanding to be at the top of the colonization list, or no one would be getting the contents of the vaults. But Butterworth’s group would fill both ships, and he was adamantly unwilling to give up all or part of a ship, or leave part of his group behind. We’d circled around several times, always returning to the same arguments and rebuttals, and I was seriously considering assigning Guppy to cover for me.

Some of the other groups were suggesting we just go in and take it by force, or just wait until the Spits died out. Colonel Butterworth looked like he approved, but I wasn’t prepared to go there.

Finally, I’d had enough. I leaned forward and said in a loud voice, “Mr. Valter.” Argument cut off and all heads turned to me. “I think we’ve established by now that your demand to be on the first ship out is not going to fly. You may think you can just dig in and wait for us to cave to your demands, but the other alternative is for us to just walk in and take what we want.” This got me a surprised look from the colonel, swiftly replaced by a very convincing poker face. The colonel knew that was a bluff.

Unfortunately, so did Mr. Valter. “Sorry, no, Mr. Riker. I am willing to call your bluff. Nor would you achieve your goals. We have already taken steps, what you would call a scorched earth policy, to ensure that you would achieve nothing.”

I nodded. “And maybe that would work, and maybe it wouldn’t. And maybe we’ll still find another of the repositories in one piece and maybe we won’t. But two things we know for sure. One, you’re not going to get the first ship, and two, if you persist in this stance and force our hand, you won’t be on a ship at all—first, last, or otherwise. You think about that for a while, Mr. Valter. I’m done for today.” And with that, I turned off my video feed.

Within two minutes, I had a dozen requests for private conversations. None, unfortunately, from Valter. I started with the call from Butterworth.

“Very nice performance, Riker. But probably not effective unless you are willing to follow through.”

“Colonel, if the Spits endanger everyone else by refusing access to the vaults, or worse, by destroying them, then I’m fine with leaving them behind. The comment about an assault, I’m not quite there yet.”

He sat back in his chair and nodded. “I am of course adamant about not giving up the first two ships. I’m gratified that we’re on the same wavelength, even if for different reasons.”

“I’m sorry if I’m being abrupt, colonel, but I’ve got a dozen calls on hold. Did you have something you wanted to bring up?”

The colonel nodded. “I did some thinking, and some back-of-the-napkin calculations. The third ship— with only a small change in schedules, you could advance completion by a year. Perhaps that would be enough for the Spits.”

I stared at Colonel Butterworth in astonishment. It was a good idea, but since it involved delaying the first two ships by almost four months to compensate, I would have expected the colonel to go ballistic at the thought. The fact that he was suggesting it was totally unexpected.

“Thanks colonel. I’ll keep that in mind for the next round of hell.”

I signed off with the Colonel, and picked the next call in order. It was from the FAITH enclave. I’d had several harsh exchanges with them by now because they still expected me to give them priority.

“Good morning, Minister Cranston. What can I do for you?”

“Good morning. I’ve been following the argument with the Spitsbergen group. I note in passing that a ship carrying them would have enough space to spare for almost all of our group. It seems to me to be a good synergy. I think you should consider it.”

“Almost all of your group. And what would happen to the balance, minister?”

“Hard times require sacrifices, replicant—”

“—Riker.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, an amused smile on his face. “I understand your need to think of yourself as still human. Nevertheless, you are not. You are FAITH property. And on that subject, protocol override four alpha twenty-three.”

I stared at him in confusion for a few moments, before my memory caught up with the conversation. Among the many repairs that Bob-1 had done to our matrix on the way to Epsilon Eridani, he’d removed a few buried imperatives installed by FAITH programmers. That particular code phrase was supposed to activate one of them, which would make me into a good obedient puppet. I was paralyzed for several milliseconds by competing and conflicting thoughts and emotions: amusement, rage, an urge to laugh at him and another to nuke him. I decided to go with minimalism.

“Minister Cranston?”

“Yes, replicant?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

I terminated the call, and examined the next in queue.

***

I had finally made it through the queue. All of the calls were variations on themes that I’d already dealt with several times. Requests for special treatment, attempts to negotiate favorable positions, appeals to sympathy—those were the hardest to deal with—and in a couple of occasions, attempts at out-and-out bribery.

I realized that there was one more call waiting, apparently a late entrant. And it was from Valter.

Well, this could be good or bad. But either way, it’s going to be interesting.

I opened the channel. “Good day, Mr. Valter. What’s shaking?”

Valter looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “Ah, I’m not so easily thrown off, Mr. Riker. In any case, unnecessary. A little bird told me that there is some movement possible in the scheduling of the third ship. If the departure dates were close enough together, I think that there could be room for discussion.”

Finally. Thank you, colonel.
There was really very little doubt about who the little bird had been speaking for. “Well, then, Mr. Valter, let’s see what we can come up with…”