B. Larson - Battle Station

“Before I have you get me into contact with the Centaurs, Marvin, I want to make sure there is no risk of an unauthorized download from them.”

“That should no longer be a problem, Colonel. I’ve restructured my ports and access protocols. No transmission from an outside source can erase my brainbox now.”

The last time we’d conversed with the Centaurs, their servers had automatically attempted to erase Marvin’s mind. This wasn’t due to any kind of ill will on their part, it was just an automatic subsystem trying to do its job. Marvin had been an incomplete copy of a system image from one of their brainboxes in the first place. When we’d left the Eden system the last time, they had not quite finished transmitting his mind to our ship. The missing elements in his mind had sought completion, and had resulted in the quirky creature I’d come to consider-well, if not a friend, then an ally at least.

“Good,” I said, “I don’t want your brain erased and turned into a boring alien-translation robot.”

“We agree on that point, Colonel.”

“Let’s give it a try then. Connect me to the Centaurs.”

“They are listening now. I connected the channel the moment you made the request.”

“You mean, before you even walked aboard Socorro? ”

“Yes.”

I grumbled and muttered under my breath for a time. Marvin made a lousy secretary. I cleared my throat, trying to form a coherent thought. I was quite glad I hadn’t said anything that would insult the Centaurs or reveal any details of my plans that they might not like. I opened my mouth to speak, but the Centaurs beat me to it.

“Colonel Kyle Riggs,” said Marvin, speaking as the Centaurs. The effect was an odd one, reminding me of listening to a medium at a seance. “We have witnessed your glorious path through our skies. Our young kick and surge with high spirits. Your honor is our honor, and the paths of our herds know no swollen rivers between them.”

“Um,” I said, “That’s great. We feel the same way.”

When talking to the Centaurs, it was always the same. They were a herd people who spoke in their own idioms most of the time. They always talked about blue skies, green fields, winds, fur, hooves and honor-above all, honor.

I realized I had to make something of a speech. This could not be a normal conversation. It would take an hour or more for my transmission to be sent to the Centaurs and back again. Even at the speed of light, Hel was a long way out from the inner planets.

“Herds of Eden,” I said, “we’ve returned as we said we would. We have driven the machines from your skies. But they still walk upon your green fields. They must be destroyed on land, sea and air, as well as in space. In order to do this, we must work together. I need information on your combat readiness. Do you have landing craft that can assault the worlds below your satellites? Do you have a force of trained soldiers that can aid with that assault, or any other assets you can explain to me now, such as fighter spacecraft?”

I took a map, checked on the factory and waited calmly for a long time while the message flew out into the void and eventually returned with their response. “Our people float in steel worlds above the clouds of our real worlds. Forced into exile as part of our agreement with the machines, we walked the long walk upward, spiraling into the sky. Many fell, but the strong and honorable never took a misstep. Those that survive in the steel worlds have no path downward. We do, however, have vast herds ready to assault the machines. They have no honor, having used your herd to injure us after promising not to. Our agreements with them are at an end. If you can carry us to the surface of our worlds, we will astonish the machines with our numbers, and our ferocity! They will sing woefully, having never met a people so willing to salt the grasses with blood to regain lost lands.”

After that, the Centaurs delved more deeply into the topic of honor, the details of its loss and gain, and how the machines were bastards who had none. This went on for some time, until I was drumming my gauntleted fingers on my command chair. I stopped listening with more than half my mind, figuring I could order Marvin to replay the speech later if I felt it necessary.

Overall, things sounded worse than I’d hoped. They had no ships to return to their worlds. They’d been stuck in their satellites, due to their agreement with the Macros. It didn’t sound like they had a whole lot of weaponry, either. What they had was a large herd of willing Centaurs, anxious to die for the cause, to fight the good fight. That was pretty much it.

Taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, I tuned out the Centaurs entirely. They were now onto the topic of clear, empty skies. Whenever one of them began singing that song, you were in for a long serenade. They clearly missed their open skies above all else. Being a claustrophobic race, they felt closed-in even while inside satellites that were many miles across.

When the speech ended at last, I turned to Marvin. “Stop transmission,” I said, “but don’t close the channel. I want to talk to you first.”

“Done.”

“What’s this about them taking a long walk up to the satellites? Do you understand that? How could anyone walk to a satellite?”

“I believe they are talking about the umbilicals.”

I stared at him. “You mean those satellites are tethered to the planetary surfaces?”

“They once were, yes. The Macros severed those ties as part of their agreement.”

I nodded and leaned back in my chair. I recalled the Centaur satellites. I’d only been there for a short time, but I’d found them impressive. “A spiraling walk,” I said aloud. “As I recall, they had tubes which led to the top of their satellite. They used narrow, spiraling walkways that only a mountain goat could feel at home upon. That must be what they mean.”

I had a very strange image form in my mind then: millions of Centaurs forced to walk up an endless spiraling tube all the way into orbit. These people didn’t have spaceships, or at least, they no longer had any. They’d gotten up into their floating cities by walking there, then the Macros had cut the cord on them, sealing them in the sky forever.

“They said something about many of them falling,” I said thoughtfully. “Nasty.”

Marvin didn’t make any comments. He studied me with about five cameras. Other cameras were taking in views from the observatory, which I now noticed he’d opened at some point. Extending a tentacle like a reeled out hose, he had a cluster of cameras at the tip of it. He was busy examining the views afforded by the glass-bottomed room. I couldn’t blame him for that. The Centaurs had left my mind wandering as well.

“Open channel again,” I said.

“Done.”

“Centaurs of Eden,” I said. “We do not have enough ships to drive the Macros from your worlds. We do have enough to transport your bravest warriors down to the surface where they can run free, however. They will have to fight well, and every one of them will have to be armed with heavy laser packs. After the planets are free of the machines, we can help by transporting your population down to the surface. Does this plan suit your needs?”

Eventually, the reply came back. Before it did, I’d made myself dinner and eaten it.

“We accept your offer with equal measures of thanks and trepidation. How large are these transports? Will there be a sky to watch, during the flight? Will the walls be far enough from the herds to allow them to run at full gallop?”

I snorted. “No, I’m afraid not. There will be only enough room for your bodies to stand quietly, shoulder-to-shoulder on the way down. But think, although this time might be difficult for you, it will be very brief. No more than a few minutes of crowding before you are free again on the surface of your natural worlds. Surely, your herds have the bravery and honor to withstand five minutes of discomfort!”