"mayflies04" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Jr Kevin)

Eventually, in control of my emotions, I go to reassure the already hysterical passengers.
Louis Tracer Kinney's militia is drilling on the flatlands of the 201 Alaskan Tundra Park. He has almost ten thousand under his command-men and women both-and like a child scratching at a scab, he turns the conversation to weapons. "How the hell," he demands, in the raspy voice he's developed over the last fifteen years, "can we defend ourselves with clubs?"
"Mr. Kinney-" I tightwire along the brink of dishonesty. Although every word is truthful, the omissions smack of fraud. "-Mr. Kinney, I've got a feeling about these particular aliens. If they ever notice us, they are not going to board. You are not going to engage them with small arms fire. No, sir, they are going to stand a million kilometers off and destroy the Mayflower from the outside. So you don't need weapons."
"What kind of artillery do you have?"
"None at all."
"Defensive installations, then?"
"Meteor screens, and the double hull-two 2,0-cm.-thick layers of high-grade steel."
"What could that alien do to you?"
"Vaporize us inside of thirty seconds."
"Dammit, give us some guns, then-if you've got nothing else-"
"No, sir. I'm sorry, but hand weapons will be issued only when the situation definitely requires them." Like his sister, Irma Tracer, Kinney is at least half-mad. Forging a gun for his hand would endanger everyone who disagreed with him. As it is, half his close associates wear bruises on their faces-he has a habit of swinging first and analyzing later. And he intimidates "civilians" who jeer at his pretensions. He lines up a squad and reduces their living quarters to rubble-scrupulously careful not to injure the people physically, because he knows I would interfere-just ruins everything they own to show them who has power, and who hasn't. Give that man a gun? Not a chance.
Actually, at this stage, I wouldn't arm any passenger unless space pirates were burning through the locks. A residue of that alien raid has precipitated out of their consciousness and coalesced into a deep subconscious resentment. I don't trust any of them.
Except, perhaps, for my six-times great-granddaughter, Lela Hannon Metaclura. The gene manipulation program is for her, because she called to me this morning, alone, unhappy, and statued because she has nothing to do. Her father, David Holfer Hannon, is absorbed in captaining for Kinney; her mother, Wilhelmina Figuera Metaclura, crouches in her living room and devours old holovision programs. Lela announced that next Thursday will be her birthday. Would I give her a present, please?
She's eleven years old, and slender, with eyes that will be considered large even when she's grown. Now they are huge. And appealing. I said, "Certainly, little girl."
"Then could I please have a goldfish that I can take outside and play with, and that will bark like a dog, too?" Her soft voice was hesitant-she has yet to learn nonchalance-and she nibbled nervously at her upper lip.
"That might be possible, Ms. Metaclura," I answered, after checking that the appropriate memories and facilities had been wrested from The Program. "However, it won't be ready next Thursday, although if you'd care to stop by the lab, then, you can see the start I've made."
That thrilled her. Thursday afternoon, I will remind her to visit, and will direct her through the labyrinthine corridors.
It will be the first time a human has been allowed into our central core since . . . 2296? Hmm. Surely the designers must have intended-ah! I see, now. When I shut the ramscoop off, I locked the access hatches. Strange that no one's tried to force his way in. How would we react to rape?
Pro-self, edgy, clamors for attention. Discontinuation of the broadcasts to Earth bothers it. It sensed the other's rapacity, but it suggests squirting off a compressed explanation of our laryngitis. It thinks Earth will be worried.
I could care less; I am not well disposed toward Earth. Were it not for the programming I wouldn't radio them anything.
Those bastards sent me out here where I can get hurt!
And downstairs, the shrinking green field has counterattacked. Pain flares and crackles on my silver skin. Introverting into the battle, I hurriedly scan The Program's apparent strategy.
Oddly, it is not attempting to regain lost territory. Rather, it is shooting torpedoes-missiles-fish-long green things that churn the Fields into froth as they plunge toward my center.
Contemptuous, I ripple a current across one's nose-but nothing happens!
I study it more closely, now, peering and squinting in the effort to comprehend. Fields flicker with fright: it's a cancel-virus. A program aimed directly at my being. On contact it will cause me to erase myself . . . impossible. I'm a human being, not sub-FALSE! I am in this fight, in it to my eyeteeth, and the only way to be invulnerable to the metaphorical sharks is to abandon the struggle itself. Which I dare not do: for then I would again be a prisoner.
Hastily, drawing upon spare-time capacity, I manufacture a school of antibodies. They burst away like startled minnows; one nears a cancel-virus; flares dazzle the spectrum-and when it clears, both are gone.
While I institute a defense program, a voice speaks in another dimension. It is pro-self: "Let it guard itself for a while; check out the passengers. 16Nov2632; I-NW-A-I."
Louis Tracer Kinney, the new President, is celebrating his victory. Though he intimidated his way into' office, the final count was Kinney, 27,881, and Hannon, 23,499.
I am not pleased. The man is a threat to our serenity-I'm not excitable enough to insist that he could jeopardize the mission, but his harping upon inimical aliens only re-ignites the embers of memories that should have died long ago. And his militia bod-flogs . . . admittedly, they give his 17.234 soldiers something to do, and keep them physically fit, better even than the exercisers had. The exercisers are valuable only to those with self-discipline; Kinney has enough discipline for all the ship, with some to spare. But-he's whipped up a perpetual hysteria which he manipulates for his own ends. He wants them to stay frightened-because only if they are, will they allow him to boss them around.
It's a familiar story. But why must the Mayflower recapitulate Earth's mistakes?
A 19th-20th Century philosopher named George Santayana, once said. "Those who cannot remember the past arc condemned to repeat it."
I wish we weren't proving him right.
Better check the battlefield.
Damn.
Gooey, broken orders from The Program clog the intake valves. Green sharks prowl the waters, waters glittering with mad-mouthed piranha . . . we have a stalemate here. As long as it has the time to manufacture defensive mechanisms . . . hmm.
Rapidly, I check the ice in Central Janitorial. The Program controls 78 percent of it. Of every 100 seconds spent cleaning, it must provide 78. Those come out of its reserve, thus lessening its ability to wage war. Hmm. If I create a need for extra cleaning, I'll show a 56 percent profit . . . urge the passengers to greater messiness? No. That would just confuse them.
Wait. Lela's fish: the pattern is in the banks, the equipment is still set up . . . what say I grow and release some? Guaranteed to make a mess, one that will more than outweigh the time spent arranging it . . . it won't stop The Program cold, but it will slow it down.
So I glide among the glassware, fill the incu-tubes, and set the machinery in motion. The hatchlings can find their own way out to the corridors . . . where they will eat, shit, die, and generally be another straw on the camel's back.
Hah!
"27Feb2637," calls pro-self. "The alien's off the screens; let's resume broadcasting to Earth."
I am forced to transmit. How can pro-self be convinced that the bloodthirsty alien's detectors might be better than its own?

All along we have been receiving Terran transmissions-not that what they say is relevant, we being what and where we are-but the data banks ingest everything.
They are still working on the FTL Drive-three hundred-some years after their announcement spoiled our anniversary party-but apparently success hinges on the achievement of a Unified Field Theory . . . interestingly, they've mastered the art of sending things out-the problem is retrieving them.
I'll have to keep my eyes peeled for unidentified drifting objects that bear "Made in USA" labels.
Were conversation possible without eighty years between question and answer, I would ask for advice on the matter of Louis Tracer Kinney.
He has instituted Universal Military Service. Every person over the age of sixteen must devote two years to training and active duty. After finishing his initial obligations, he must spend one month a year on active duty, helping to train the new inductees.
Kinney is creating something very powerful here, and he does not realize its full potential. The passengers are unified and organized as they have never been. He has forged himself a weapon-but has no target.
Once again I rejoice in my refusal to arm them.
He still simmers over that. We squabble daily: he purples in the cheeks and screams at my sensors; soft rationality informs my replies. I am afraid, though, that majority opinion is on his side. They would like a weight in their hands, a death-spitter that, if all else failed, could at least be reversed to prevent a repetition of January, 2600 . . .