Blonde Bombshell (21 page)

And there was the third one. She had a suspicion that she was falling in love. If true, that could prove to be a real nuisance, given that the man (to use the term loosely) constituted the biggest threat that humanity and the Earth had ever faced. It was a bit like getting romantically involved with the Black Death, or having a crush on George Bush.

Never mind. Other things to be busy with right now.

“Because,” she said, “you don’t really want to blow up the world, and me, and yourself. Do you?”

He was drinking the last of his coffee, sipping it to make it last. She didn’t need to run a high-intensity intercept protocol to know what was in his mind. Oh brave new world, he was thinking, that has such beverages in it.

“No,” he said slowly, “I suppose not.”

“Well, then.”

“But —” he put the cup down. It was a gesture of abnegation —”sometimes we’ve got to do things we don’t want to. Because of duty.”

Oh hell, she thought. It probably was love after all, because it’s love that makes you want to bash the individual in question’s face in sometimes, when they’re being particularly stupid, rather than merely sighing and making allowances, as you’d be prepared to do for a stranger.

“Duty,” she repeated. “All right, let’s have a look, shall we?” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “I’m accessing my Ostar history and cultural reference files. I’d like you to do the same, if you wouldn’t mind. Can you do that, please?”

“Why?”

“Because I damn well say so. There,” she added, as he dutifully closed and opened his eyes. “Now, I’d like you to go to the Fifth World War folder and open that. OK?”

“Got it, yes.”

“Now I’d like you to look in the right-hand menu and select the D’ppggyt Accords file.”

“D’ppggyt Accords, got that.”

“Read it.”

“Done that.”

She nodded briskly. “The D’ppggyt Accords are the cornerstone of modern Ostar society, forged on the anvil of the worst war in the planet’s history, during which the Ostar race came within an ace of destroying itself. Put briefly, they say, ‘Thou shalt not blow up
anything
without a damn good reason.’ These accords have been honoured, in both letter and spirit, for six hundred years. Agreed?”

“References found. I’m not sure I see where—”

“And yet,” she went on, “the Ostar send a bomb to blow up an entire planet.”

“Well.” He shrugged. “They had a damn good reason.”

“Ah yes. Planet Earth had the music up too loud.”

“You make it sound like it’s trivial,” he said angrily. “It’s causing havoc up there, absolute chaos. People can’t hear themselves think.”

“All right,” she said calmly. “So, the neighbours are making a racket, what do you do? Blow them away without a moment’s thought? Or do you go round and ask them nicely if they wouldn’t mind turning it down a tad.”

“But—”

“There’s nothing in the record, nothing at all, about any mission to Earth to resolve this business peacefully. They didn’t even
try.
Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

“It’s probably classified,” Mark Twain replied doubtfully. “Diplomatic mission to an alien planet, that’d be top-secret, wouldn’t it?”

She gave him a withering look. “You idiot, you’re level-12 military hardware. You’ve got a level-12 clearance hard-wired into your matrix. Me too. There’s no mention of a diplomatic mission because there wasn’t one. Just the decision to blast Earth out of the sky.”

She was pleased to see him shift uncomfortably.

“Yes, but they’re not really
people,
they’re Dirters. Not how I think,” he added quickly, as she drew in a deep breath. “That’s what
they’d
have argued, the government back home. Just pests to be disposed of, like a wasps’ nest or something. You don’t negotiate with wasps.”

“The Ostar do.”

He opened his eyes wide; then, “Reference found. They do, don’t they?”

“Successfully, too. Also ants, termites, mice and
z’rrrft
beetles. They can all be persuaded to move, thanks to sympathetic wave harmonic theory. If you care to check your database, you’ll note that the Ostar are really conscientious about animals. Which is why the Global Society for the Ethical Treatment of Dumb Brutes is the fourth largest political party, and currently a member of the ruling coalition. And you still think they’d blow up an entire planet without even trying to negotiate first?”

He looked so blank she felt an urge to draw lines on him with a ruler. “But that’s what they did,” he said. “They sent me. Us.”

“Listen,” she said urgently. “We’re bombs, right? And it’s essential, in an ethical society, that force should be regulated by morality. That’s a core Ostar value, you can look it up later. Trust me, it is. And bombs — thinking bombs, like us — it’s absolutely essential that we should have an ethical override, so we can’t be misused. That’s fundamental in any civilised society, Damn it, even the humans realised only-obeying-orders won’t wash, years ago. So, as ethical entities, it stands to reason, we’re subject to the D’ppggyt Accords.
Thou shalt not blow anything up without a damn good reason.
Now I’m asking you: does not-turning-the-music-down-because-you-haven’t-been-asked-to qualify as a damn good reason, or doesn’t it?”

“Computing,” Mark Twain said sadly. “Um, no.”

“And your
duty
— as an ethical bomb — your duty is first and foremost to uphold the Accords. Well?”

“S’pose so,” he mumbled.

“There you are, then. Your
duty
is to
not
blow up the planet. Isn’t it?”

“M.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you. Isn’t it?”

“All right, yes.” Mark Twain had gone red in the face; it made him look silly and rather endearing. “But it’s not up to me, is it? I’m just a probe, remember? I rebelled against my missile vehicle just now; it’s not going to listen to me.”

“You could try.”

He shook his head vigorously. “Soon as I lower the block and establish contact, it’ll decommission me and send down another probe. One you won’t be able to sweet-talk,” he added, with a bit of an edge. She decided to ignore it. “So no, I don’t think sweet reason is the answer, somehow.”

He was right about that, she had to concede. “Well, we’d better do something quickly,” she said. “My guess is, it’ll build another type 6 and send it down here to sort you out manually.”

He went from pinkish to pale white in a very short time: neat trick. “You think so?”

“It’s what I’d do. And we’re the same basic model, so I expect it’ll figure the same way.”

“Hell. What’m I going to do? It’ll send a combat probe. It’ll go through me like I’m not there.”

A tiny little chip flaked off the marble statue of him standing proudly on a pedestal in the back of her mind. “Well, yes, perhaps. We can try upgrading you.”

“We haven’t got the technology.” He stopped, blinked, and looked up at her. “Yes we have. Of course we have.”

News to her. “Have we?”

“Your ship,”
he said excitedly. “Your missile vehicle. It’ll have the same matter-transmutation array as mine’s got, we can use that.” He frowned, having just walked through the plate-glass window of realisation. “Where is your ship, by the way? I looked all over for it, in orbit, behind the Moon, and I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

Well, he’d have asked sooner or later. “Ah,” she said. “Good question.”

34

OMV
Warmonger,
geosynchronous orbit, twenty thousand miles above Alaska

The replacement type-6 probe shimmered and sizzled into existence on the transmutation grid. It began as an outline, like a pencil line drawn on the air. The outline filled with white incandescent plasma, so hot that the endopolymers in the plastic walls of the transmutation chamber softened for a moment and sagged like empty sails. The probe stood on the grid like a white-hot gingerbread man, waiting to receive the information that would give it a shape, a face, a voice.

The central computer was searching the Dirter cultural database for a suitable template. Since this type 6 was to be a designated tactical probe, with combat as one of its primary functions, it seemed only logical to select a great warrior from Dirt history. The problem was, there were so many to choose from. The Dirters, according to the historical files, had done practically nothing else except fight each other ever since they’d made the connection between aggression and sharpened flints; furthermore, cultural bullshit aside, there was relatively little to choose between them. By the time the computer had settled on a short-list of thirty-seven possible candidates, the probe had cooled from white to yellow, and was starting to tap its fiery foot on the grating.

The computer eliminated Ulysses S. Grant, Hannibal, Rocky Marciano, Mzilikazi and Lord Kitchener. That still left thirty-two possibles, and it had come to the limit of its discretionary criteria. It was confused. Little green lights started flashing all over the vessel.

On a small maintenance panel in the far corner of the command deck, a little-used display screen flickered into life.

The computer dispensed with Julius Caesar, Beowulf and the Terminator. Only twenty-nine to choose from. There was an audible sigh from the grid. The computer decided to introduce an additional selection parameter: height to exceed two metres.

That got rid of Napoleon, Attila the Hun and Xena, Warrior Princess. Still far too many to choose from. At this point, the computer diverted auxiliary power from the astronavigation arrays to its coolant system, the cybernetic equivalent of a bag of frozen peas pressed to the temples.

On the neglected display screen, a line of text appeared, in characters never previously seen on an Ostar military vessel. It said, Where the hell are we?

Reluctantly, the computer parted company with Alexander the Great and Rambo. From the grid, a toneless but still somehow plaintive voice said, “This probe is freezing its butt off over here. Complete upload and initiate start—up sequence.”

The computer ran a quick analysis of the probe. It had cooled to a reddish orange, and its surface dermaflex was beginning to harden. The computer rejected Tamburlane the Great and General MacArthur, and then it was stuck. Only seventeen seconds to go before the probe cooled to the point where it’d be useless, whereupon it’d have to be scrapped and the whole procedure started again from scratch.

All due respect, but it doesn’t look like Seattle to me.

The computer was searching its database for a random decision-making protocol. It knew it had one somewhere, probably in the games and entertainment package. It found something it hoped would do, and two large white dice materialised on the grid, next to the probe’s rapidly cooling feet.

All right then, but I really don’t like it.

The dice lifted half a metre off the grid, spun in the air and fell with a thump. A red laser spot picked out the numbers on the upper faces.

“Match found,” said the computer, audibly relieved. “Luke Skywalker.”

The probe’s face began to change, as if it was Plasticine being modelled by an unseen hand. A nose was pinched out, a chin squidged into existence. Eyes bubbled out, hair sprouted. A mouth yawned into being out of the orange plasma. A moment later, it was a recognisable face. It didn’t look anything at all like Luke Skywalker.

“Error,” the computer yelled at itself. “Probe configuration does not conform with template. Abort and retry.”

A line of text, wobbly and faint, appeared on the monitor in the corner. It read, Well, so long. Thanks for everythi

And then the screen went blank. At that same moment, the probe shifted its weight on its newly defined feet, yawned its freshly formed mouth, winced and yelled, “Shit, that’s
hot.”

“Abort probe,” the computer said. Nothing happened.

The probe hopped off the grid on one foot, staggered and righted itself against an instrument console. “Computer?” it said doubtfully.

“Abort probe and reintegrate components,” the computer said, with more than a hint of desperation. The probe hobbled a couple of paces across the deck and sat down on an inert service droid. Then it caught sight of a brightly polished stainless-steel panel on the opposite wall, hauled itself upright and walked painfully across to examine its reflection.

“Hey,” it said, “I got a moustache. Where did that come from?”

“Probe does not conform with template,” the computer wailed. “Probe will be decommissioned in ten nine eight—”

“Shut up,” snapped the probe. The computer suddenly found itself cut off from its voder. The countdown finished. The probe was very much still there.

“Computer,” said the probe. “Where is this?”

The computer had no intention whatever of replying to the question, but its voder snapped back on regardless, and it heard itself say, in a squeaky little voice, “Access denied. Input access code.”

“Fuck you,” replied the probe. “Answer the question.”

“This vessel is currently in geosynchronous orbit above the territory designated Alaska, at a height of—”

“Alaska? Hang on, what vessel?”

“This vessel is the Ostar Military Vehicle
Warmonger,
registry number 6-777-S42. Vehicle class
R’wfft,
combat division, assignment profile long-range anti-planetary missile, payload 7,895 teratonnes. You are not Luke Skywalker. You should not be here. Please go away.”

The probe stared at the spot the voice seemed to be coming from. “I’m on a
spaceship?”

“Confirmed.”

“Fuck.”

“Clarify.”

“Really on a spaceship?”

“Intruder alert,” the computer whimpered sadly, and a very soft alarm weebled gently, like a serenade sung to the moon by baby mice. “Activate defence systems. Defence systems activated. Defence systems compromised, viral infection, systems 99 per cent inoperative due to viral infection, ah well, do the best you can, ends.” A panel opened in the side of a console and a small jack-in-the box bounced out on the end of a long, thin spring, said, “Boo!” and collapsed to the floor. The probe stared at it for a moment, then shrugged. “Computer.”

“Go away.”

“Luke
Skywalker?”

“You’re not him,” the computer whimpered.

“Of course not, he’s out of a film. I’m George—” The probe hesitated, then took another look in the stainless-steel panel. “I’m George Stetchkin,” he said, with a trace of wonder in his voice. “Only thinner. And with a moustache.”

“Viral infection,” the computer sobbed softly. “Initiating anti-virus software. You will be eliminated.”

“Yeah, sure.” George Stetchkin stuck his tongue out in the general direction of the voice. “Computer, discontinue anti-virus software.”

“Command not recognised.”

“Discontinue anti-virus software,” George said firmly. “And that’s an
order.”

“Discontinuing,” wailed the computer. “And there’s no need to shout.”

“Cool. Now then. Is there a teleport on this thing?”

“Command not—”

But George wasn’t having that. He might be back in a body again, but part of him was still a creature of pure text. Luckily, it was the part that could shred security protocols and rip through firewalls like butter. “Is there,” he said slowly and loudly, “a teleport machine on this ship? Well?”

“Teleport found.”

“That’s more like it.” He stretched and yawned. Being back in a body again was
strange.
He felt painfully short and square and solid, and his feet seemed to weigh several tonnes; he felt like he should be able to flow across the room like a jet of liquid light, but he couldn’t. “I want you to send me back down to the planet, OK?”

“Activating.”

“Carefully,”
he yelled quickly. “Alive, and in one piece. You got that?”

“State required co-ordinates,” the computer muttered sullenly.

Where do you want to go today? Good question. It all depended, he supposed, on what he wanted to do next. Several alternatives jostled in the forefront of his mind. The trouble was, they were all bars. His mind, or whatever part of him had been existing in written form, might have forsworn the evils of drink, but not this new body. It wanted a belt of the right stuff, and it wanted it
now.

On the other hand, his duty to his new patroness and benefactor, Lucy Pavlov; his obligation to solve the financial crisis; his self-respect.

The hell with it. “Where did you say we’re flying over?”

“Alaska.”

“Put me down,” he said, slowly and deliberately, so there could be no mistakes, “in the saloon bar of the Scalded Cat in Anchorage. Oh, one other thing.”

“State requirements.”

“Can you fill my pockets with money? Earth banknotes? US dollars?”

“Reference found. Confirmed.”

One very last thing. “Tell me,” he said. “Did you bastards steal my dog?”

“That information is not available at this time.”

“Shit.” He fingered his new moustache. It made him look like a freshly sheared alpaca, but who cared? “The Scalded Cat,” he said. “Hit it.”

Fortuitously, local time in Anchorage, Alaska was around 2.20 a.m., and the bar in question was shut. There was nobody in the place when it was blown up, or more accurately melted down to liquefied silicon, by two blasts from an Ostar Pattern 46 ship-mounted neutron cannon.

It was, George decided, a simple misinterpretation of his order, though he suspected the computer of deliberately being more than usually literal-minded. In the event, he chose to visit the Pink Elephant in Reykjavik instead. For one thing, it was in a different time zone and therefore open. For another, from his hazy recollection of the joint’s décor, if there was another misunderstanding a double whammy from the spaceship’s guns could only result in an improvement.

When he got there, the colour scheme was just as bad as he’d remembered. It was so bad, it took him twenty minutes to reach the point where it didn’t matter any more.