Read Online Steelheart by William C. Dietz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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pitchforks and pointy tails. Green lines flashed as the targets came in range. Michael forced himself to wait, then fired his latest invention.
Like his archenemy, the Eye of God, Michael was equipped with onboard nano. Though originally intended for maintenance purposes, they could be reprogrammed. That was relatively simple. The more complex problem was to capture the raw materials required to manufacture what he needed. There were three choices available to him: capture some of the micrometeors that whacked him on a regular basis, cannibalize his own body, or salvage the metal from his dead comrades.
The last of these options was not only the most practical but the most symbolically satisfying, since it enabled his former companions to fight from their metaphorical graves. Which explained why he adopted all of their nano, carved chunks from their orbiting bodies, and used them to build weapons. The latest, which he called "the shotgun," was not only practical but aesthetically pleasing as well.
On Michael's command the ball turret-mounted tube spit highly concentrated streams of custom-designed nano at the incoming targets. He cheered as the micromachines hit the killer sats, clung to their exterior casings, and went to work. It took the tiny robots less than three seconds to disassemble the attackers, reconfigure their component parts, and completely rebuild them. The result was four miniature weapons platforms, each orbiting Michael's body, protecting him from harm.
The outcome pleased Michael so much that he generated peals of artificial laughter, beamed the sound toward the Eye of God, and waited for a reaction. None came. The Mothribuilt machine had been built for aliens by aliens and was impervious to humanlike head games. Too badâsince the Angel sat felt sure that he could beat the other AI in satelliteto-satellite combat, and thereby end the matter.
An alarm reminded Michael of the scheduled surveillance scan. He brought his optical imaging system on-line, scanned the area around Flat Top for any sign of intruders, repeated the process via both radar and infrared, and made his report. Doing so involved human contact and was one of the most pleasurable moments of his day. Abby Ahl was waitingâ and her voice made him happy.
"Hey, Michael, how's it hanging?"
"If I had one, it would be floating," the satellite replied.
Ahl laughed. "Roger thatâhow's our three-sixty?"
"You've got a couple of Mothri surveillance units hanging around, and Zid spies in all the usual places, but nothing to get excited about."
"Good," Ahl replied. "Keep us advised."
"As always," the satellite replied. How's your love life?"
"Completely nonexistent," Ahl lied. "But what else is new?"
"Those guys don't know what they're missing," Michael said, without having any idea himself. "Take care."
"You too," Ahl replied. "Catch you next shift."
"Roger that," the machine said. "Over and out."
Abby Ahl was thirty-three years old. She had short brown hair, a crooked nose, and large, inquiring eyes. A Zid cross hung between her breasts, down where no one could see it, but she could feel its comforting presence.
The satellite was evil incarnate, and despite the fact that she had been given a dispensation to deal with it, left her feeling dirty. She hated to deal with the thing, but didn't have much choiceânot if Flat Top was to fall. She hurried toward the shower. The water would feel good.
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Mary Maras awoke to the sound of a long, drawn out scream. She fought her way out of the sleeping bag, rolled off the work bench, and grabbed the riot gun. The floor was cold under her feet as she headed toward the front room. That's when the roboticist heard the android shout, "No! No! No!" and felt the building shake as something heavy hit a wall.
Mary brought the weapon up and stepped through the doorway. She had expected invaders, a lot of
Like his archenemy, the Eye of God, Michael was equipped with onboard nano. Though originally intended for maintenance purposes, they could be reprogrammed. That was relatively simple. The more complex problem was to capture the raw materials required to manufacture what he needed. There were three choices available to him: capture some of the micrometeors that whacked him on a regular basis, cannibalize his own body, or salvage the metal from his dead comrades.
The last of these options was not only the most practical but the most symbolically satisfying, since it enabled his former companions to fight from their metaphorical graves. Which explained why he adopted all of their nano, carved chunks from their orbiting bodies, and used them to build weapons. The latest, which he called "the shotgun," was not only practical but aesthetically pleasing as well.
On Michael's command the ball turret-mounted tube spit highly concentrated streams of custom-designed nano at the incoming targets. He cheered as the micromachines hit the killer sats, clung to their exterior casings, and went to work. It took the tiny robots less than three seconds to disassemble the attackers, reconfigure their component parts, and completely rebuild them. The result was four miniature weapons platforms, each orbiting Michael's body, protecting him from harm.
The outcome pleased Michael so much that he generated peals of artificial laughter, beamed the sound toward the Eye of God, and waited for a reaction. None came. The Mothribuilt machine had been built for aliens by aliens and was impervious to humanlike head games. Too badâsince the Angel sat felt sure that he could beat the other AI in satelliteto-satellite combat, and thereby end the matter.
An alarm reminded Michael of the scheduled surveillance scan. He brought his optical imaging system on-line, scanned the area around Flat Top for any sign of intruders, repeated the process via both radar and infrared, and made his report. Doing so involved human contact and was one of the most pleasurable moments of his day. Abby Ahl was waitingâ and her voice made him happy.
"Hey, Michael, how's it hanging?"
"If I had one, it would be floating," the satellite replied.
Ahl laughed. "Roger thatâhow's our three-sixty?"
"You've got a couple of Mothri surveillance units hanging around, and Zid spies in all the usual places, but nothing to get excited about."
"Good," Ahl replied. "Keep us advised."
"As always," the satellite replied. How's your love life?"
"Completely nonexistent," Ahl lied. "But what else is new?"
"Those guys don't know what they're missing," Michael said, without having any idea himself. "Take care."
"You too," Ahl replied. "Catch you next shift."
"Roger that," the machine said. "Over and out."
Abby Ahl was thirty-three years old. She had short brown hair, a crooked nose, and large, inquiring eyes. A Zid cross hung between her breasts, down where no one could see it, but she could feel its comforting presence.
The satellite was evil incarnate, and despite the fact that she had been given a dispensation to deal with it, left her feeling dirty. She hated to deal with the thing, but didn't have much choiceânot if Flat Top was to fall. She hurried toward the shower. The water would feel good.
Â
Â
Â
7
Â
rid' er / n / something used to overlie another
Â
Â
Mary Maras awoke to the sound of a long, drawn out scream. She fought her way out of the sleeping bag, rolled off the work bench, and grabbed the riot gun. The floor was cold under her feet as she headed toward the front room. That's when the roboticist heard the android shout, "No! No! No!" and felt the building shake as something heavy hit a wall.
Mary brought the weapon up and stepped through the doorway. She had expected invaders, a lot of
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