“We’ve been conditioned. The demons set up a network of introspection circuits for their own use—and we can still use them!”
“They don’t do us much good, long as we’re stuck here. These walls are tough. I tested ’em a little; they didn’t give at all. Maybe if we fired at ’em, we could knock a hole through.”
“Maybe there’s an easier way.” I reached out toward the gate, found the cybernetic control circuitry, probed, fired signals; massive tumblers stirred, then an alarm went off—a shriek of pure mental power, slicing out across distance to alert the aliens.
“Oh-oh—that did it!” Joel called.
I wheeled toward the gate. “Try your guns, Joel!” Together, we raced for the barrier, pouring fire into the massive chromalloy grid. I saw it glow to red heat—but it held.
We churned to a halt. “We’ve got to get out of here,” I shouted. “That siren will bring them on the run!”
“There’s not many units around here now,” Joel said. “Just two parked outside the gate, and they’re kind of asleep like. There was a Brigade near here awhile back, but they just stayed awhile and moved on.”
I reached out, sensed the two machines dozing on low alert. “I tried to control a couple of units once—it didn’t work. But I’ve learned a few tricks since then. Maybe—”
“Maybe what, Jones?”
“I don’t know—but I’m going to try something and see what happens.”
I reached out to the dull glow of the idling mind-field, formed in my mind an image of the mental voice of the Centurion Zixz.
“Combat unit! Damage report!” I thundered.
“All systems functional,” came the instant reply.
“Situation report!” I demanded.
“Unit Six of the line, standing by on low alert.”
I reached for the other mind, touched it; it identified itself as Unit Seven of the Brigade of Ognyx.
“Units Six and Seven! Open fire on compound gate!” I roared.
“Acknowledged,” came the instant reply. Almost at once, the ground rocked under me; I saw the gate bulge, leap in its mountings. A fragment broke loose from the wall, fell, and drove dust up in a blinding cloud.
“Give it all you’ve got, Joel!”
I opened up and pounded the gate; its protective field absorbed energies, bled them off in flaring corona of radiation. The metal glowed white, then blue—then, like a conjuror’s illusion, puffed into radiant gases, dissipating explosively.
“Cease fire!”
Joel and I raced past the white-hot stumps of the vaporized grid, out onto the shattered plain. Half a mile distant, the two immense combat units sat, white-hot guns still bearing on their target.
“Units Six and Seven!” I transmitted as I barreled past. “You are now under the Command code ‘Talisman.’ Your primary function will be the protection and assistance of Units Eighty-four and One hundred. You will not report the existence of Talisman to any Command unit. Fall in and follow me.”
I saw the two huge machines obediently start up, wheel into line, come up to speed. Together, our small force hurtled across the stark desert under the blue light of an alien world.
“Hey, that was neat, Jones,” Joel called. “Where we going now?”
“There’s an underground depot a few miles from here. Let’s see if we can reach it before they cut us off.”
* * *
The aliens were a dust cloud far to the east. We angled west, crossed a range of broken ground dotted with burned-out hulks, raced past the upthrust fault line where the dead Centurion Zixz still held his silent vigil at the cliffhead. We drove for the crater wall. Monitoring the command band, I heard the clamor of orders, an exchange of queries among Command units. I caught an order hurled at the guards I had captured:
“UNITS SIX AND SEVEN! REPORT!”
“Joel—fake up six!” I said quickly. Then:
“Standing by at low alert,” I transmitted in the monotone of an automaton circuit.
“REPORT STATUS OF CONFINEMENT AREA!”
“All quiet,” I transmitted listlessly.
The crater walls were rising before us now; I streaked for the cleft, flipped on powerful lights as I entered the shadows of the pass. Behind me, Joel and our two recruits followed up the rise of ground, down onto the plain within the ring-wall. I scanned the scene, identified the location of the access tunnel, roared across to it, and stopped.
“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.