Expendable - James Alan Gardner [92]
Then the explanation came to me—an archaic concept dating back to the earliest days of aviation. The cylinders were missiles. Weapons. Designed to be shot at other planes or ground targets where they would explode on impact.
“Bloody hell,” I murmured. “Where did those come from?”
“Fashioned at behest of the first generations,” the AI-man answered cheerfully.
“That’s hard to believe,” I snapped. “The first generations must have been primitive hunter-gatherers. They didn’t wake up one morning, saying ‘We’d like some warplanes, please.’”
“You have the right of that,” the man conceded. “But the League took in hand the education of those who came to this place. One generation followed hard on another; and within a handful of centuries, they advanced to devices like these.”
He waved proudly at the killer birds.
“You actually built them weapons on demand? Of course, you did,” I went on without letting him answer. “The synthesizers made that axe for Oar. As long as no one took weapons offplanet, the League didn’t care.”
“They cared, O queen,” the man replied. “All violence cuts them to the very quick. Yet they grant each species the right to choose its course, within the containment of its proper sphere.”
“So you helped this town build…wait a second. I thought you only followed instructions from people with skin. After the first generation, wasn’t everyone made of glass?”
“By no means,” he answered. “Though many firstcomers chose to be so altered that their children gleamed with health, others held to the frailty of flesh. That path was hard; what mother can watch her child ravaged by fever without vowing her nextborn shall not suffer? What father can bear the bitter spectacle of his children continually bested by those swifter of mind and foot? Pricked by such thorns, more chose the way of glass with each passing year; yet not all. Not all. And those who walked with hollow-eyed Death bedogging their steps like a shadow, those stubborn folk of deliberately mortal flesh…why, they saw devils in every dust mote and knives in every open hand. What wonder that they demanded fearsome engines of war? Death was the currency of their lives: the only coin they had to spend, the only coin they could demand of their enemies. And so it continued until the last such purse was emptied.”
I stared at him. “You mean the people of flesh warred themselves into extinction?”
“That overstates the matter,” he replied. “They fought but little, for their numbers were small. Yet they forged their arsenals with the diligence of fear; and fear, more than all, became their undoing. Frighted people yearn to protect their families. What better protection could they find than immortality? Wherefore, as voices of war grew clamorous, more among their number claimed the gift of alteration…until there came a day when every child was glass, and no new flesh was born. The drums of anger fell into silence; and if the crystal children wished to continue their parents’ hates, I stopped mine ears to their cries. I and my kind do not serve them—they need no such service. But you, milady…you shall I serve and right gladly.”
My mouth was open, ready to snap back a retort—as if I wanted an AI to put killer jets at my disposal!—but I stopped myself from hastiness. With a flier, Oar and I could reach the southern mountains in short order: no long days carrying packs, no frigid river fords, no confrontations with wolves.
And (my stomach fluttered) I might be face to face with Jelca before nightfall.
“Which plane can I take?” I asked.
The AI-man beamed. “The lark, milady; the herald of the morn.”
The First Farewell
Short minutes later, I stole past the dirt-worn banners of Tobit’s home, hoping I could sneak in and back without being noticed. Through the glass wall ahead, I could see our equipment: my pack and the food synthesizer. I could also see the four Morlocks and Tobit, sprawled in comatose luxuriousness, passed out from drinking. It was