Keith Laumer - A Plague of Demons

“So far, so good, Joel; wait here with Six and Seven. If I don’t come back—good luck.” I moved forward into the black mouth of the tunnel.

The units sat in ranks as I had left them, silent, ready, their circuits idling. There was no time now for caution on my part.

“Combat units!” I rapped out. “You are now under operational control of Command Unit Talisman! Only Talisman commands will be obeyed! Orders of the Over-mind will not be heard! Full combat alert! Prepare for action! First squad, roll out!”

Obediently, ten massive fighting machines rumbled forward, wheeled left into line, advanced toward the exit ramp. I preceded them, emerged into the open, watched as they filed out and took up battle formation.

“They caught on to where we were going, Jones,” Joel called. “I’ve been listening; they sent ten units over to see what we’re up to!”

“I’ll take this squad and hold them off, Joel! You get the rest of them out!”

I heard his voice rapping out orders as I set off.

As I reached the crest of the defile, the interceptor force came into view—ten mighty machines, glittering under the light of the full planet. At once, a thunderous command blasted at me:

“UNITS, IMMOBILIZE! REVERT TO STAND-BY ALERT!”

I reached out, found the grotesque form of an alien mind, and dealt it a smashing blow.

“Task force, you are now under the control of Talisman Command,” I roared in imitation of the Command-voice. “Take up positions in echelon with Talisman force!”

Nine of the battle units acknowledged, moved into the pass, leaving their dead leader behind. Under our guns, they mounted the path, took up stations as ordered. Far out on the flat, the main body was in view, coming up fast.

“All out, Jones,” Joel’s call came. “We’re on the way.”

“Some new volunteers have just rallied to the standard,” I called back. “Post units at all the passes into the crater; we’re going to have to defend this position.”

“If we run for it, we could get away clean now, Jones,” Joel called. “We could head for way off yonder somewhere, and we’d be safe.”

“Safe—for what?”

“For anything. We could set and think, and look up at the stars and wonder at ’em, and every now and again we could loose off our guns, just for the heck of it—”

“It’s too late to run. But maybe we’re not finished yet.”

I outlined my battle plans; Joel understood at once. In spite of his childlike experience, his mind was quick now. Then I adopted the voice of the Centurion I had killed at the pass, bawled out a counterfeit report to the Over-mind:

“Under attack by renegade units! Serious damage inflicted! Four units destroyed! Withdrawing north under heavy fire! Reinforcements required at once!”

An acknowledgment came, a vicious blast of hate-filled threat and exhortation. I carried on my account of a violent battle, transmitted coordinates of the imaginary action, while Joel disposed our hundred units in defensive positions along the ridge commanding a view of the scene.

The Over-mind thundered abuse at me, a running commentary of bitter recriminations for my inept handling of my force. I countered with assurances of renewed effort—and watched the dust-cloud drawing closer. An advance guard raced ahead—ten more vast battle units. I reached out for contact… and found only the numb minds of slave machines.

“Looks like the Command unit stayed back out of sight this time, Joel. Take this bunch over and swear ’em in.”

I extended awareness, caught a fragment of an order:

“INTERCEPTION FORCE, REPORT POSITION!”

I complied with a confused report of mysterious enemy machines, flights of ballistic attackers, heavy damage. The Over-mind rose to new heights of fury:

“BRIGADES QLYX, COGC, YLTK! CLOSE WITH THE ENEMY AND DESTROY THEM! MAY RAINS OF ACID CONSUME THE LAGGARD!”

“He’s getting a little upset now,” I called to Joel. “He doesn’t know what’s happening. Be on the alert for those Brigades now—they’re out for blood.”

A flight of missiles appeared over the horizon, arcing down on us. I integrated their courses, saw that they would overshoot.

“Hold your fire, Joel!” I called. “We’ll save our fire-power for when it counts.”

Volley followed volley, arcing high overhead—decoys intended to draw fire at maximum range rather than to score hits. I felt for the imbecile brain of the wave-leader—a twitter of fear-patterns, food-lusts, mating drives, tropisms subverted to the uses of evasion patterns and course corrections. With a touch, I readjusted their navigational orientation, saw the flight swing quickly, drive frantically back to dive on its originators.

A full Brigade roared forward in assault formation now, guns pouring out fire that heated the rock spires of our defensive line red-hot—but failed to drive back the nearly invulnerable machines that manned it.

The leading enemy unit bellowed up the slope, met massed fire at point-blank range, exploded with a blinding detonation.

I reached out with practiced precision, executed the Centurion, then ordered the Brigade through the pass. Guns fell silent as the force rumbled up through fountaining dust to reinforce our line.

Below, the aliens, confused by the abrupt desertion of the vanguard, milled in confusion. Those that advanced met a hail of destruction from the guns of two hundred and ten units, firing from cover. They hesitated, fell back. A final lone alien unit, scarred and burned, came relentlessly on, rocked to our bombardment, then veered to one side and plunged over a precipice.

I gave the cease-fire, and watched the aimless maneuvering of the moron units below—and still they came over the horizon, in Brigade strength, their sensors seeking out targets and finding none.

I saw a damaged unit go berserk, charge down on a comrade, firing, and in automatic response, a thousand guns, glad of a target, vaporized it in a coruscation of ravening energies.

And still they came, blindly seeking the programmed enemy who no longer awaited them in the traditional line of defense… until they crowded the plain, lost under a blanket of ever-renewed dust clouds.

I probed into the confusion of mind-babble, met a deafening roar. All firing had ceased now. The aliens formed a ragged front five miles away, ringing our crater fortress.

“Looks like we mixed ’em up pretty good, Jones,” Joel said.

“We gained a little time. They’re not what you’d call flexible.”

“What’s our next move? We’re in a kind of a dead end here. Once they figure what’s going on they’ll surround the place and lob it in on us from all sides—and then we’re goners.”

“Meanwhile, things are quiet. Now’s our chance to hold a council of war.”

“Jones, I been looking over these units of ours—and there’s something funny about ’em. It’s like they wasn’t really machines, kind of.”

“They’re not. Every machine here has a human brain in it.”

“Huh?”

“Like you and me. They’re all human—just unconscious.”

“You mean—every one of those machines down there—all of them?”

“You didn’t think we were the only ones, did you? These damned ghouls have been raiding us a long time for battle computer.”

“But—they don’t act like men, Jones! They don’t do nothing but follow orders; look at ’em! They’re just sitting there, not even talking to each other!”

“That’s because they’ve been conditioned. Their personalities have been destroyed. They’re like vegetables—but the circuits are still there, all ready to be programmed and sent into battle.”

There was a pause while Joel probed the dulled mind of the nearest slave unit, which waited, guns aimed, for the order to carry on the fight.