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Chapter 6 · Slaves to the Metal Horde

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  Chapter six of Slaves to the Metal Horde by Stephen Marlowe. This LibriVox recording
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  is in the public domain. Slave to the Metal Horde, Chapter six.
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  We have openings in the repair bays, or for servants among the inner circle
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  of Shining Ones, who work hand in hand with our masters, the old
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  woman told Starbuck and Diane, after they had been taken from the rocket ship
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  in New York and shunted underground, where the subways have been converted into living
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  quarters for humans, without being given a chance to see the city. Which
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  will it be? We're not cut out to be menials, Starbuck said coldly.
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  But the repair bays don't appeal to me either, you say, servants
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  to the leaders themselves, to the top echelon of shining ones. Yes,
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  you will find this socioeconomic hierarchy rigidly in four Well, which will it be,
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  Starbuck had heard about palace revolutions. It would be servants to the leaders,
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  naturally. Let them bide their time, let them learn what they could
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  of the citadel and its robots. Servants, he said, are you married?
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  The old woman, shamelessly bare to the waist on this hot day,
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  smiled at them with a perfect set of false teeth, which seemed laughably incongruous
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  in her gaunt, seamed face. Her bare breasts were dry as parchment and
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  hung flat but pendulate almost to her waist. From a distance, she looked
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  almost like a mannequin, a leathery humanoid robot. We are, Starbuck beamed,
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  but Diane said, certainly not. The old woman cackled. I believe
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  the woman in that case. You will live in these underground dormitories. Not
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  in the city upstairs, Starbuck demanded, disappointed. Not in the city,
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  that is correct. Do not ask why. It is merely so we work
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  for the robots and obey them. Is that clear? Some day the only
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  humans left on earth will be shining ones, or so the robots tell us.
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  Then we will climb up into the light of day and take our rightful
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  place, side by side with them. Meanwhile, we do as we are
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  told. Are you satisfied, Harry, Diane wanted to know. The robots
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  make promises and destroy our brothers, our brothers, Starbuck laughed, You mean
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  the people of the villages, those our brothers. The plague makes brother hate
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  brother. But you're a fool, Starbuck. The robots want that this playing
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  of human against human. Yes, how do you know You've never I don't
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  know, but Amos Westler always said so Westler Starbucks spat contemptuously. A reader
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  of books, we go out to hunt or raid, Wessler seeks his books
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  and grows soft looking through them. With more Westlers and less Starbucks in the
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  world, Diane began, we probably wouldn't have had to fight three world wars
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  and never would have. That's enough, said Starbuck, his eyes darting suspiciously
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  to the old woman, who was taking in their conversation with an amused look
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  on her face. It is quite enough, agreed the old woman, if
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  you want to last here more than a few days. Can the robots actually
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  understand us, Starbuck asked the old woman, shrugged thin. Some say they
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  can read our minds. It is not important. Those of us who rule
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  can understand, since they can somehow communicate with the robots. It is the
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  same thing we will conform, promised Starbuck, like robots of robots, said
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  Diane bitterly. Johnny Hope rubbed the stubble of beard on his face and frowned
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  at Westburn. I'm not sure, but I think I know this place we
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  should reach the New York River. This afternoon, they stood in a forest
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  glade not a hundred yards from one of the overgrown concrete highways upon which the
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  robots were known to tread. A path paralleled the highway through the woods,
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  and upon this they made their way. Sometimes I wonder if you know what
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  you're letting yourself in for, Western mused. I want to find Diane.
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  I'll take whatever goes with it. Do you mind if I ask why?
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  I'm not sure? I know myself. All I know is I think of
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  her all the time. Nothing matters as much as finding her and freeing her.
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  We could be wrong. Perhaps she is not with the robots at all.
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  What do you think I think she is? Everything points to it.
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  I was only pointing out that we're not sure, Johnny. Not many years
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  ago I met a man, another shining one, who had fled from New
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  York. He was old and he didn't last long. But he told me
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  things, which about the robots. You mean, yes, you know,
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  of course they can help cure the plague. Instead they spread it. I
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  never could figure out why. Who knows what sort of thinking the robots can
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  do. We're not even sure if they possess sets at all, although I
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  suspect they do. But in the last days of the war, Man made
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  a frantic mistake. The robots were conceived as fighters, were constructed as fighters,
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  were built to hate man and to kill man. When we gave the
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  robots a different mission, entirely, it failed. They've simply strengthened the plague
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  toxoid and made it lethal. I don't think they'll rest until every man on
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  Earth is destroyed. We're weak now, disorganized. We've left civilization behind us.
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  You think the robots could do the job overnight, but the only thing
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  that prevents them actually is the lack of numbers. Most of my people,
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  I mean the villagers, not my people any longer. Most of them believe
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  the robots somehow will cure the plague. And most of my people, said
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  Wessler, believe their destiny is hand in glove with the destiny of the robots.
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  They put it this way, we are hated by the rest of mankind,
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  we are apparently not hated by the robots. Why not cooperate with them,
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  then? Actually a free man of shining ones as large as kellihers as
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  the exception, not the rule. Every day, more and more shining ones
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  go to the citadel in New York or elsewhere to work for the robots.
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  Not a pretty picture, is it? What can we do about it?
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  At present? I don't have the slightest notion. We've got to do something,
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  though, Someone's got to do something unless nature's ready to write off mankind
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  is a bad experiment. Perhaps I am a pedant, Johnny, I do
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  not know, but I will tell you this. When all the great strides
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  and human history were made, the pedants, the scholars pave the way.
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  I want to see this citadel, not only to learn, but to see
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  if there is something, some way to end the rain of the robots.
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  It seems incredible that men their makers lacked the foresight to equip them with an
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  Achille's heel, if the need ever arose. Abruptly, Johnny motioned Wessler down
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  with a wave of his hand. It looks like you're going to find out
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  soon enough. Take a look, Johnny parted the bushes in front of them.
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  Here the dirt path had angled sharply toward the highway, so that not
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  more than thirty yards separated them, marching silently along the concrete in the direction
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  of New York. Quiet but for the clanking of their joints. Was a
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  long file of robots. Spongy metal footpads, whispered Wessler, staring eagerly at
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  the robots. We built find fighting machines, Johnny, and now we find
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  we have to suffer the consequences. Johnny nodded impatiently, hardly feeling philosophical.
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  This is what we came here for, Amos, he said, afraid to
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  tell you the truth. I'm not sure yet. Johnny was not sure either,
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  but did not want a brood about it. He stood up, recklessly,
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  forcing his way through the undergrowth toward the highway. By the time he
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  reached it, western trailing uncertainly at his heels, he was shouting. It
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  worked magically. The long line of robots, extending as far as they could
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  see to the left and several hundred yards to the right, stopped its steady
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  advance. The great metal heads, each bigger than a man, swiveled on
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  the sockets which joined them with the tiny bodies, the unblinking eyes which now
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  faced them, another set for each robots surveyed the rear. Johnny knew were
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  lined up row one row. We want to join you, Johnny called out.
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  We want employment. In the citadel. Did a human ask a robot
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  for employment? Johnny Hardy knew, for nothing had been further from his mind
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  until recently the leading robot came back down the line toward them. Johnny could
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  read nothing in the artificial eyes and had to check a wild impulse to run.
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  Sometimes I prefer the uncomplicated life of an unimaginative man of action, Western
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  moaned softly. It was Johnny knew a good point. He did not bother
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  telling Wesler that both traits had merged in him, which might have been better
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  or worse, depending upon the circumstances. Then the robot was upon them.
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  Sixty three seventeen B. Yes, sir. All robots, even those with
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  a primary level of thought as high as sixty three seventeen B and an existing
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  secondary level, addressed Central Intelligence as sir. After exhaustive tests, it has
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  been a judge that an overestimation has been made regarding your mental ability. Since
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  that is the case, it will mechanically be necessary to change your position,
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  sullenly plotting shapeless revenge at a central intelligence which would never consider the possibility of
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  an outside factor intervening unexpectedly, and hence altering or spoiling what had been planned.
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  Sixty three seventeen B listened to his fate. A position currently is vacant
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  as supervisor of the Shining ones and a section of the repair base. Do
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  you have any objections to assuming this new duty in place of the old To
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  object was disastrous. To object was to admit you needed not merely a lesser
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  job commensurate with your lesser skill, but also complete readjustment of your thinking process.
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  No objections at all, sir thought sixty three seventeen B, all the
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  while smoldering with resentment, his time would come. What was the old human
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  expression about every dog having his day? Then you will report at once to
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  repair Bay one fifty one. Do you know its location? I will find
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  it? That was the prescribed answer one rarely asked questions One found out for
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  oneself from central information. Sixty three seventeen B. Half thought he was still
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  being tested in some less obvious and hence all the more deadly fashion. But
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  to be placed in charge of a gang of humans it was degrading in time.
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  Sixty three seventeen B. You shall be tested again, If it is
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  our opinion you have gained back what we thought you once possessed, you will
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  again be elevated to a higher station. Sixty three seventeen B curse central intelligence
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  on a private wavelength. Central intelligence was the creator of perfect plans. If
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  a plan misfired, central Intelligence could not be held responsible. Since accidents of
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  nature had never been considered valid excuses, blame always fell on the executing robot.
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  Until recently, sixty three seventeen B had managed to beat the system largely
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  through luck. Now, while he realized it was the most mechanical thing in
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  the world to do as you were told, he could not hide his bitter
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  disappointment, but he pushed it from his mind all at once when he felt
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  another mind nibbling at his private wavelength. No one could be trusted, Not
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  when each robot tried to outdo every other robot in the eyes of central intelligence,
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  not when private thoughts could be intercepted by monitors, Not when communal thinking
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  was considered preferable to individual thinking. That thought made sixty three seventeen be shudder,
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  his joints clanking as a sudden surge of power, the electrical equivalent of
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  a dreamal secretions coursed through his frame. He was indeed thinking not along the
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  prescribed lines. Probably something was wrong with him. This is ironical, said
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  Amos Westler, as the first inert robot came sliding down the conveyor belt to
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  stop a rusted man shaped creature twice man's size, with huge conical head and
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  withdrawn antenna in front of his bench. We'll never learn anything this way.
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  You won't learn the whereabouts of Diane at this bench, and I won't learn
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  what I've come to find out. We're not on duty twenty four hours a
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  day, Johnny reminded him, unfastening leg joints with a large wrench like instrument
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  and wiping the parts with an oily rag before he reassembled them. If Diane
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  is here, I'll find her. Well, we've learned nothing so far.
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  They took us into the citadel through a tile walled tunnel. Surely one of
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  the wonders of the world, Johnny cried, remembering the world has many wonders,
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  natural and man made, if we could but see them anyway. They
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  then deposited us in those underground quarters where all the humans seem to live here.
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  The old hag interviewed us, Yes, she wouldn't say if she'd seen
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  Starbuck and Diana or not when I described them, but it sure made her
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  smile. I think they're here in the citadel Amos. Then assign us to
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  this repair bay for work. Do you realize that, except for the brief
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  time it took to go from the tunnel exit to the underground quarters, we
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  haven't seen the light of day. Tried learning something in these caves. Without
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  warning, the andayor belts were stilled. Hidden lighting in the walls flared brighter.
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  As a group of robots entered the large vault attention. A voice blared
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  at them, oddly metallic. Johnny could not tell where it came from.
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  Robots, sixty three seventeen B is now entering the vault as your supervisor.
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  Sixty three seventeen B is to be obeyed as if he were Central Intelligence itself.
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  He is to be addressed not directly, but through your human supervisor.
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  The robot numbered sixty three seventeen B, but the numbers were hidden under the
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  central face plate, and you hardy could tell. The machines apart, made
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  a brief inspection of the vault, then climbed to his niche in the wall,
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  where he sat completely without motion while the other robots filed from the chamber.
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  Although we can't address the robot our supervisor can, Wessler said eagerly.
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  That means at least communication of some sort is possible. I guess, so
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  why don't you get to know the supervisor. You're much better at that sort
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  of thing than I am, Johnny. We came here for different reasons.
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  Don't forget there's an old hag. I'd like to answer more questions when I
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  find her. Here comes our supervisor. Now, Wester whispered, then aloud.
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  My name is Amos Wesler. I don't care what it is. It's
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  recorded Cape waricking friend. The supervisor was a brutal faced man who snarled out
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  his words. His jaw, cheekbones, and forehead were silver sheened with plague
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  scar with the plague silver remaining there as well as on his limbs. His
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  face seemed metallic as a robot's see. Wester whispered in despair as another damaged
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  robot slid to a stop in front of them. Johnny offered a one take
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  it easy, he said, but hardly felt more than the last remaining shreds
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  of patience within himself. If the old Hag wouldn't talk when he saw her
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  tonight. Don't bother calling me names, young man, cackled the hag,
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  I am virtually immune. It is against existing regulations to give you that information,
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  since it has felt all ties with the past and the outside world must
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  be broken, not gradually, but at once. Listen, Johnny said desperately.
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  You must remember your own youth. He had tried every other verbal assault
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  he could think of. Now He hardly thought flattery would work on the ancient
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  bag of bones in front of him, but it seemed his last hope.
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  You must have had your lovers in your day. Were you as attractive for
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  your years as a younger woman. Something melted in the Hag's eyes. She
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  scrubbed her breastbone with the knuckles of one parchment hand, as if preening,
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  why yes, She admitted, I'm in love with the girl. You must
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  know how I feel. He he took her, at least in part.
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  It was the truth in love with Diane. He never thought of it yet
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  what had impelled him to battle kelle Her in an uneven fight, to set
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  out for New York when he could have ruled the encampin instead to surrender himself
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  to the robots of the citadel. Johnny smiled, trying to awaken something in
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  the hag. He had succeeded in awakening something, all right, but in
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  himself. Such information I cannot give you, young men, and I thought
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  you remembered your youth. But they say the view from the Corridor thirteen exit
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  is magnificent. To reach it, one travels along Corridor fourteen, which is
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  a dormitory for some of our young, unmarried women. The Hag cackled,
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  don't get caught. I won't thank you. Good luck, my boy.
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  The hag patted his shoulder, crowed something which he failed to hear, disappeared
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  from the room outside. At a forking of four corridors, Johnny found a
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  map and studied it. Lights recessed high on the walls showed him his direction,
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  and soon he was pounding down the corridors and praying silently that the Hag
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  knew what she was talking about. By the time he reached quarter fourteen,
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  he was breathless. Several young women stood in the corridor talking. Their chatter
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  was stilled when they saw Johnny, and those who had been in various stages
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  of undress hastened to cover themselves. Clearly it was not common for a man
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  to venture this way, particularly at night. Are you lost, menne?
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  No, I'm looking for someone, a girl named Diane. They were smiling,
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  and Johnny began to wonder. He suspected that corridor trysts were not particularly
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  uncommon. Is she expecting you? Demanded the boldest of the women who had
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  stepped to the four, while her more timid companions drew back, ready to
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  dart into the surrounding cubicles. I cannot truthfully say, Johnny admitted. If
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  she knew I was in the citadel, I think she would be expecting me.
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  But even that was with tongue in cheek. For ever since he had
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  refused to fight with Starbuck, Diane had said not a word to him.
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  This Diane, What does she look like? Johnny described her. When he
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  finished, the woman chuckled, Could you perhaps be twisting from your description?
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  I would say you love the girl, for no woman could be so beautiful.
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  I think I know who you mean. Though still chuckling, the tall
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  woman entered one of the cubicles, while her companions melted away into the others.
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  Soon Johnny stood alone in the corridor, waiting as nervously as a youth
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  in Hamilton Village might wait while the village match maker entered a house to fetch
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  his bride. Some one appeared in the doorway, not the tall woman,
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  Diane Johnny Johnny Hope, Diane. I never thought I would see you again.
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  I thought Starbuck. I was so afraid for you, because you couldn't
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  adjust to your new life, because I thought you might do something desperate.
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  I was a fool. I should have known why you refused to fight with
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  Starbuck. Johnny Johnny, let me look at you. Look later, he
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  said, his eyes suddenly unexpectedly misty. He drew her to him, and
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  for a long time stood there with her, feeling the beat of her heart
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  tied against him, the warmth of her body, and long smoothness of limbs.
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  She was trembling, the warmth of her all a flutter against him.
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  She was murmuring something softly against his shoulder. He was whispering in her ear.
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  I love you, I love you, Diane. Her lips were perfumed
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  and yielding. Her arms went behind him, hands joining behind his neck,
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  then playing with his hair. The plague, his exile from Hamilton Village,
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  the fight with kelliher, the long trek, even captivity in the citadel,
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  all were a small price to pay, he thought dreamily, then abruptly drew
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  back. We don't want to stay here all our lives, he said,
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  I'll go anywhere with you, Johnny. Save that for later, Darling,
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  But I love to hear it. I don't think we'd have much trouble leaving
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  the citadel if we go tonight. We wouldn't every day I work with Starbuck.
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  But if we left at once now tonight. Her new found enthusiasm not
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  only matched his, but added wings to it. He was on the point
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  of saying yes, of leaving her through the quarters in a dash for freedom,
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  when he remembered, we can't. He said, not tonight. We've
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  got to include Amos Westler in our plans. Wessler is here. Johnny explained
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  the situation to her, then added, tonight Wesler went looking for some information
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  about the robots. He feels certain they have an achilles heel someplace, if
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  only he can find it. Actually, it won't be easy dragging him away
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  from the citadel, even tomorrow night. We can wait one night longer,
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  sweetheart. You convince him tomorrow. I don't like the thought of leaving you
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  alone again until tomorrow night. Diane still as by placing cool fingers to his
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  lips. We have no choice. I can take care of myself one night
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  more, Starbuck. I can take care of myself in that respect too.
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  Go back to your dormitory and get some sleep. Tomorrow night, same time,
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  same place. Westler will be with me. They came close and drank
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  of each other again. They parted, Johnny edging down the corridor backwards until
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  the last shaft of light disappeared from the entrance to Diane's cubicle. His head
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  was whirling in a giddy new delight, in a rapture which clouded his mind
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  with a buoyant optimism which almost made him forget the citadel. The robots and
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  men like Harry Starbuck. Footsteps pounding down the hall, heavy, too heavy
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  for a woman's Quickly, Johnny flattened himself in the darkness of a niche which
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  served some nameless purpose. With the light behind it, a shadow loomed reared
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  up toward him. It was Harry Starbuck. Johnny held his breath until the
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  big man with the smug boy's face strode past, heading for Diane. In
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  all probability, Yes, follow him, stop him, attack him. Wild
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  thoughts ran their course through Johnny's head and lose everything all they were looking forward
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  to. For his impulsiveness, footsteps receded, the shadow vanished. Even if
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  he could follow Starbuck, overpower him and escape with Diane, their secret would
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  be secret no longer, which would leave Amos Wesler to fare for himself.
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  Wait for tomorrow, Johnny Hope. His course seemed clear, yet he had
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  to fight himself all the way back down the corridor until he had reached the
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  male dormitories. For many hours, which seemed like days. He waited up
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  for Amos Westler, but his thoughts were all with Diane. If Starbuck so
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  much as touched her. End of chapter six