That’s got to be Ben Fynn, Ethan thought, remembering his mission.
He started to approach the farmer’s house, but stopped when he felt some thudding through the ground. Turning around, he saw a shiny form that towered just above the smallest barn stomp into view. His jaw fell a little as he realized what it was. It was an enormous mechsuit, inside which was another overall-wearing man. He operated the controls like it was a John Deere tractor, picking up a bale of hay with its gargantuan forklift-like hands.
Ethan had to double-take on the machine. With a second look, he noticed similar technology all over the farm. Cows were strapped into a strange harness with hoses running from it. Tiny pumps on it worked the creatures’ utters as the milk flowed through the tubes. Autofeeders with precision sensors were in each pen, around which the animals paced, waiting for their next meal.
“Wow,” Ethan said to himself. He regained his composure and continued his march to the farmhouse.
“I told your boss guy not to bother!” the portly man on the deck shouted once Ethan was within earshot. “Guess he reckoned to send you anyway.”
“Ben Fynn?” Ethan asked as he arrived at the front steps.
The portly man nodded. “That’s right,” he replied. “I’m the Gearhead official in the region, which is why I suppose you want to talk to me. Don’t see the point, but I suppose listening is the neighborly thing to do.”
“You understand our plight?” Ethan asked. He waited to climb the stairs.
“As well as I can, ‘spose,” Farmer Ben replied. “I can already tell you though, you won’t be leavin’ happy. The Gearhead Guild is not fond of fights, particularly when they’ve got nothing to do with us.”
“It’s got to do with everyone,” Ethan said.
“You say that,” the farmer started, “but if you knew better, you’d understand that Gearheads ain’t a part of everyone.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed a little. He took in a deep breath, trying to suppress the frustration within him.
“How so?” he asked. He did everything in his power to make his tone curious and genuine.
“Well, first off, we ain’t a kingdom like that Opes is,” Ben answered. “We ain’t a nation at all. We’re just a network of friendly folks who want nothing but to be left alone. Each one of us runs our farms and our ranches as sovereign states, like ancient Athens or Sparta. You see, the only reason we even stay in touch with each other is for basic trade. That, and to come to each other’s aid when they need it. Like good neighbors do.”
“How do you stay in touch?” Ethan asked. “Is there someplace you meet?”
Farmer Ben chuckled. “Naw, we just use the radio,” he replied. “It’s been around for a long time and we figure it suits us just fine. Don’t need this crazy Net everyone’s hooked up to all the time.”
“Do you stay in contact with anyone outside the Gearhead Guild?”
“Sure. That’s how I knew you were coming.”
“What about with Shell City?”
Farmer Ben grew quiet. His large lips tightened into a small mouth.
“No. Never,” he said. “We don’t let those computer programs anywhere near us.”
“Computer programs?” Ethan asked before the meaning hit him.
“What you guys call ‘installed intelligences,’ ” the farmer answered. “Cheap imitations of life. Evil A.I., if you ask me. They’re unnatural, and that’s why bad things always follow them. When you’re dead, you’re dead. That’s it. Tampering with that is only asking for troubles.”
“I take it you’re not an I.I. fan,” Ethan commented.
“The things that caused the war? No, can’t say I’m too fond of them. You may claim they’re safe and we should just be accepting, but we’ve seen what taking chances gets you. There’s no telling what those progs can do. They might take over our harvest mechs and cut down every human in sight. They could possess any of our machines and kill our livestock. Not to mention what they can do to a person. No siree, we don’t want to be meat puppets. You understand what they do to people, don’t you?”
Ethan nodded. “More than you do, certainly,” he said.
Farmer Ben raised an eyebrow in curiosity. He didn’t urge Ethan on verbally, but the implication was there.
“My whole life, I was raised in the Council’s custody for the sole purpose of becoming a meat puppet,” the teenager explained. “Just so some rich I.I. can live in my body and feel what is only mine to feel. They were going to destroy my mind; they were going to slaughter me, like cattle.”
A distorted expression of disgust overtook the farmer’s features. “You see where I’m coming from, then,” he said. “More than anyone, you must get why we don’t like I.I.s.”
“I.I.s didn’t do that to me,” Ethan said. “The Council did. And they’re going to do it to more people. And once they run out of body’s to steal, they’ll come for yours. Any safety you think you have here is a delusion; they will come regardless. Unless we stop them.”
Farmer Ben looked away from the teenager and gazed out at one of the mechs in the cornfield. He watched the machine swing its massive sythe and cut down small patches of crop. Then he looked back at Ethan.
“Tell your people we’ll be in touch,” Ben said, his tone low enough to be a whisper. “I have a call to moot; I can’t make the choice for the other Gearheads. But I’ll talk to them.”
“Thank you,” Ethan said.
Truck
Tera looked down at the camp with an expression of dread as her autocar made its descent. With a soft whoosh, the vehicle
