DAV entered the complex, passing through a low corridor littered with lifeless human bodies. The corpses had been allowed to lie where they'd fallen. Small-unit harvesters had already picked over the remains for useful spares, but most organic parts didn't hold up well to hard vacuum, and there'd been little recovered deemed useful.
Unfortunate, DAV thought with a flicker of passing interest and something that might almost have been regret, that die organics* brains had not been harvested before the complex of buildings had been opened to vacuum. The only living organics captured here were those who had been able to scramble into protective suits, a scant eighty-three out of the hundreds of organics inhabiting this population center alone. Inefficient. The Prime Code demanded that use be found for all recovered raw materials, and organic brains showed great promise in that regard, particularly as series add-ons and upgrades. It was distinctly possible that that was what the human organics were good for within the Prime Code's schema ... but so much more research was necessary to learn how the organic brains functioned, and why they functioned as they did.
Perhaps, DAV thought, with its new elevation to five-brain status, it would be able to hasten the Prime Code's assimilation and learning process. The !*!*! would need every advantage in the coming struggle with the Grakaan of Dargurauth.
Yes, DAV728 decided, the thought racing back and forth between all four of its brains, there were going to be a number of necessary changes once it received its promotion. . . .
BOLO RISING
55
Jaime hesitated outside the shack, then rapped sharply on the sheet tin beside the doorless frame. "Enter," a heavy voice said from within, and Jaime ducked to go in. Dieter, who'd accompanied Jaime on this visit, took up a nonchalant pose nearby where he could watch the comings and goings of floater eyes and possible snitches among the camp's inmates.
The senior-ranking military officer in the Camp was sprawled on a pile of rags, his back against a support post. Once, an eternity before, before The Killing, General Edgar Spratly had been lean and trim and hard, a recruiting poster of a man with eyes like chips of anthracite set deep beneath bushy brows. After almost a standard year at the Celeste Camp, however, it was as though he'd shrunken inside, and his skin sagged and hung on his heavy frame like a suit too big for its owner, and his one remaining eye had been dulled and softened by the endless horrors he'd seen.
A half dozen other men watched from the darkness encircling the room . . . young survivor officers whom Spratly had assigned as his personal staff. As far as Jaime could tell, though, his staff did litde but serve as Sprady's personal retinue of yes-men and ego-boosters.
"General? It's good of you to see me."
Spratly grunted. "Pull up some floor."
Jaime sank gratefully to a bare patch of ground. He was tired from the day's labors and still feeling the effects of the long night preceding them.
"We may have a chance at Valhalla," Jaime said without preamble.
Sprady's eyes widened slighdy, but he didn't answer immediately. Instead, he glanced at the walls of his dark shed in silent warning. Careful what you say.
Jaime glanced around the inside of the shanty. The general claimed to prefer diis tiny, oudying building, which he called "HQ," to die communal claustrophobia
56
William H. Keith, Jr.
of the ex-factory, which he shared with the members of his staff. There was less chance of being overheard, he said, though Jaime wondered how secure the ciapboard-and-sheet-tin building really was. Still, it was possible to assign miraculous powers to the alien machines .. . and in so doing paralyze yourself with fears of what they might know or do.
Dieter was convinced that the cluckers didn't really care what their human slaves did, so long as they followed orders. It was as though they were convinced that they had nothing to fear from creatures so obviously as helpless and as insignificant as humans.
Well, Jaime thought, that could be an advantage for the humans as well. Overconfidence on the part of the enemy could be as great an ally as an operational Bob.
"Would you rather talk outside?" Jaime asked.
Spratly glanced at his chief of staff, a wiry former captain, named Pogue. The man shrugged slightly.
"S'probably all right," Spratly said. "There haven't been any machines sniffing around HQ for a long time. But... keep your voice down."
"Of course ... sir." The honorific came with difficulty to Jaime's lips. It was hard to see the general today, as he was now, and feel die same whipsnap of command He'd possessed as Jaime's commanding officer, back when the CDF had been in existence and military protocol still meant something. For a time, shortly after the lost Battle of Chryse, Spratly had maintained his rigid, military bearing, holding rofl calls for military personnel, continuing to wear his uniform, even going so far as to organize an escape committee.
None of that had lasted beyond the first month or so. The roll calls had been pointless, especially since the staggered labor schedules meant some of the ex-military slaves were gone no matter when a meeting was held, and eventually they were abandoned.
