Keith Laumer - A Plague of Demons

“Who are they, Jones—the Command-minds and the Over-mind—all those voices I hear in my head?”

“They’re the masters of the dog-things. They’re fighting a war—the devil knows what it’s about. For some reason they’re using this moon as a battleground—and we’re a convenient source of computer circuits.”

“The ones they’re fighting—they’re just as bad,” Joel said. “I got close to ’em once—nearly got cut off. I put out a feeler to one—wanted to see what he was like. I figured maybe if he was against the Command-voice, maybe I’d change sides. But it was—it was horrible, Jones. Kind of like… well, like some of the old ladies that used to come around the Seaman’s Welfare. They was so bound to do good, they’d kill you if you got in their way. It’s like hell comes in two colors—black and white.”

“We need information, Joel. We’re as ignorant as new-born babies. For a while, I didn’t even know how fast time was going by. We move fast—we can run through a fifty-thousand-item checklist in a second or two. But I still don’t know how big I am. I feel light—but I suppose that’s just because of the lesser gravity.”

“I can tell you how big we are, Jones. Come on.” I watched as the great battle-machine that had been Joel backed, turned, started off along the wall. I followed. At the far end of the compound, at the junction of the barrier wall with a massive squat tower, he stopped.

“Look there,” he said. I examined the ground, noted the broken rubble, a heap of scattered objects like fragments of broken spaghetti, loose dust drifted against the coarse, unjointed wall.

“See them little sticks that got a kind of glow to ’em?” Joel said.

“Sure.” Then I recognized what I was looking at. “My God!”

“Funny, ain’t it? Them skulls don’t look no bigger’n marbles; leg-bones look like they might belong to a mouse. But they’re full-sized human bones, Jones. It’s us that’s off. We must be, well, ’bout—well, I can’t count that high…”

“They look about twelve inches; my picture of myself is about twelve feet to my upper turret. I can multiply that by six; that makes us seventy-two feet high!”

“Jones—could you teach me to count them big numbers? You know, it’s funny—but seems like I missed learnin’ a lot of things, back when—when I was just a man.”

“You’ve changed, Joel. You think about things a lot more than you used to.”

“I know, Jones. It’s like I used to be sort of half asleep or something. I can’t remember much about it—back there. It’s all kind of gray and fuzzy. There’s lots of things I want to know now—like numbers—but in those days, I never even asked.”

“Joel, how did you get the wound you had on your forehead?”

“Yeah—I remember; there was a sore place—it hurt, all the time. Gosh, I forgot all about them headaches! And it was kind of pushed in, like… I don’t know how I got that, Jones. I never used to even wonder about it.”

“It was a badly depressed fracture; probably bone fragments pressing on your brain. The pressure’s gone now. It must have been the repressed part of your brain, coming up again, that let you throw off the aliens’ control.”

“It’s kind of funny, the way I can look inside my own thinkin’ now, Jones. Seems like I can sort of watch my brains like; I can see just how things work.”

“We’ve been conditioned. The demons set up a network of introspection circuits for their own use—and we can still use them!”

“They don’t do us much good, long as we’re stuck here. These walls are tough. I tested ’em a little; they didn’t give at all. Maybe if we fired at ’em, we could knock a hole through.”

“Maybe there’s an easier way.” I reached out toward the gate, found the cybernetic control circuitry, probed, fired signals; massive tumblers stirred, then an alarm went off—a shriek of pure mental power, slicing out across distance to alert the aliens.

“Oh-oh—that did it!” Joel called.

I wheeled toward the gate. “Try your guns, Joel!” Together, we raced for the barrier, pouring fire into the massive chromalloy grid. I saw it glow to red heat—but it held.

We churned to a halt. “We’ve got to get out of here,” I shouted. “That siren will bring them on the run!”

“There’s not many units around here now,” Joel said. “Just two parked outside the gate, and they’re kind of asleep like. There was a Brigade near here awhile back, but they just stayed awhile and moved on.”

I reached out, sensed the two machines dozing on low alert. “I tried to control a couple of units once—it didn’t work. But I’ve learned a few tricks since then. Maybe—”

“Maybe what, Jones?”

“I don’t know—but I’m going to try something and see what happens.”

I reached out to the dull glow of the idling mind-field, formed in my mind an image of the mental voice of the Centurion Zixz.

“Combat unit! Damage report!” I thundered.

“All systems functional,” came the instant reply.

“Situation report!” I demanded.

“Unit Six of the line, standing by on low alert.”

I reached for the other mind, touched it; it identified itself as Unit Seven of the Brigade of Ognyx.

“Units Six and Seven! Open fire on compound gate!” I roared.

“Acknowledged,” came the instant reply. Almost at once, the ground rocked under me; I saw the gate bulge, leap in its mountings. A fragment broke loose from the wall, fell, and drove dust up in a blinding cloud.

“Give it all you’ve got, Joel!”

I opened up and pounded the gate; its protective field absorbed energies, bled them off in flaring corona of radiation. The metal glowed white, then blue—then, like a conjuror’s illusion, puffed into radiant gases, dissipating explosively.

“Cease fire!”

Joel and I raced past the white-hot stumps of the vaporized grid, out onto the shattered plain. Half a mile distant, the two immense combat units sat, white-hot guns still bearing on their target.

“Units Six and Seven!” I transmitted as I barreled past. “You are now under the Command code ‘Talisman.’ Your primary function will be the protection and assistance of Units Eighty-four and One hundred. You will not report the existence of Talisman to any Command unit. Fall in and follow me.”

I saw the two huge machines obediently start up, wheel into line, come up to speed. Together, our small force hurtled across the stark desert under the blue light of an alien world.

“Hey, that was neat, Jones,” Joel called. “Where we going now?”

“There’s an underground depot a few miles from here. Let’s see if we can reach it before they cut us off.”

The aliens were a dust cloud far to the east. We angled west, crossed a range of broken ground dotted with burned-out hulks, raced past the upthrust fault line where the dead Centurion Zixz still held his silent vigil at the cliffhead. We drove for the crater wall. Monitoring the command band, I heard the clamor of orders, an exchange of queries among Command units. I caught an order hurled at the guards I had captured:

“UNITS SIX AND SEVEN! REPORT!”

“Joel—fake up six!” I said quickly. Then:

“Standing by at low alert,” I transmitted in the monotone of an automaton circuit.

“REPORT STATUS OF CONFINEMENT AREA!”

“All quiet,” I transmitted listlessly.

The crater walls were rising before us now; I streaked for the cleft, flipped on powerful lights as I entered the shadows of the pass. Behind me, Joel and our two recruits followed up the rise of ground, down onto the plain within the ring-wall. I scanned the scene, identified the location of the access tunnel, roared across to it, and stopped.