well to a vote opposing the motion. He could get so angry sometimes…
And now the summing-up had finished, and the Speaker was calling for the vote. Myriad arms were raised, and Susan and her team scanned the crowd and conferred.
They were all agreed. Susan was surprised at how shaken she was by the final vote.
She relayed it to the Speaker, who announced it as the sun set over the bowl.
‘Citizens, the motion for combat is opposed.’
Grey shadow filled the bowl. Susan felt empty.
‘Citizens, it is time to return to our homes. Turing City will remain open. We will welcome Artemis!’
Susan’s gyroscopes lurched. She looked up, and there was Maoco O, staring down at her. There was something so desolate about the City Guard’s stare. And then he recovered himself, turned away and slid from the arena.
A thin wind whined southwards: barely there, but sharp like an awl. It hissed through the gravel on the Zernike battleground, scratched at the rock and prised at the cracks. It was the last remnant of the winds that had torn over the icy plains of the North, whipping up the snow into blizzards before rushing on to tear the foam from the iron-grey waters of the Moonshadow sea. It was a scout wind, searching out the land, preparing for the invasion of winter.
The wind hissed between the chinks and joints of Olam’s new metal body, cooling the electromuscle inside, making him feel numb and sluggish. He needed to get up and move around, but he wasn’t allowed to. He had been ordered to lie down on the bare rock and wait, and so that’s what he did.
It wasn’t that great a distance from Wien to the Zernike plain, but Olam felt as if he had come a very long way.
After the trials of the stadium, he had been marched with the other recruits to a training camp. There he had been drilled in Artemisian philosophy and engineering by one of those seemingly identical grey-painted robots. The lectures had gone on, day and night, while in the distance they could see Wien being quickly and efficiently disassembled. But there had been little time to watch, his attention constantly called back to what they were being taught: how to be Artemisians.
And then the lessons were over. He had been marched with the rest to a forge; his panelling stripped away and sent off to be melted down. Artemisian soldiers had probed his body, detached his electromuscles, showed him the standard design for Artemisian infantry and then patiently watched over him as he rebuilt himself as an Artemisian citizen, all the time correcting him and offering advice. They had been kind and helpful, much to Olam’s surprise.
Now he was a little shorter and squatter, even a little weaker. His eyesight had improved, his hearing was a little more acute, but aside from that he couldn’t help thinking that he would have made a better soldier as he had been before.
Doe Capaldi, the tall aristocrat, lay nearby. Except he wasn’t the tall robot any more, just another interchangeable infantryrobot exactly like Olam. To Olam’s surprise, Doe Capaldi had altered himself with little complaint, stripping away whale metal and replacing it with the iron and copper the Artemisians gave him, thus making himself Olam’s equal.
Except he wasn’t, of course. He never would be. Doe Capaldi’s mind had been woven for leadership, just as Olam’s own had been woven for servitude.
The wind blew, and the electromuscle in his abdomen ached. They had lain there unmoving on the plain for hours. They had seen the sun set in the west, red fire over distant Wien, his broken home. Zuse had risen, its silver light reflecting off the railway lines that ran across the plain.
He listened to the wind. He listened with his new ears to the voices carried through the night. He recognized the voice of Eleanor, the robot who had conscripted them. She was speaking in tones of disbelief.
‘Madness! We are not ready to attack Turing City! Our numbers are too depleted. We should return to Artemis and re-equip!’
‘That is not the will of Artemis,’ replied another voice. ‘The city is closed to us. Spoole has sent a message, that we are not to cross the marshalling yards. We are not to enter the city!’
‘Spoole is frightened of you. He will have heard about what you did to General Fallan.’
‘Possibly. Nonetheless, we attack Turing City.’
The robot that spoke to Eleanor sounded male. His voice was low and colourless, and yet he was clearly in charge. Olam hadn’t seen the leader of his group, nor had he been told what they would be doing. He had merely been assigned a place on a train, and then shipped out here to this plain in the middle of the continent. Maybe Doe Capaldi was right after all when he had said Artemis needed cannon fodder to launch an attack on Turing City.
‘We’ll be wiped out,’ Olam muttered. ‘Doe Capaldi, you were right. We’re just cannon fodder!’
The other robot didn’t reply, so Olam lay in the dark, wondering whether it would have been better to have just remained in Wien.
The cold wind sang through his elbows and knees. All he could hear now was the same whistling sound from the bodies of the other robots that lay around him, and he began to wonder if he had imagined those voices in the night.
Thin ribbons of dark cloud were approaching from the north, oily bands that slicked across the moon’s surface. They drew patterns across the sky so that the stars seemed to gather in bright pools amidst the darkness.
And then there was a stirring of bodies. The whine of muscle, the scraping of metal. The rails were singing.
A train was coming.
The train was four and a half miles long, weighed over nine thousand tons, and was moving at one hundred miles an hour. Eleanor had been given the job of stopping it.
‘It’s just passed me by,’ crackled the voice on the radio.
Eleanor held the radio away from her skull. The signal made her mind sing.
‘Did the driver see you, Paxan?’
‘I’m pretty sure she did. I don’t know if she took any notice of me, though.’
‘Okay.’ Eleanor thought for a moment. She clicked the send button on the radio and spoke to the next soldier in the long line that she had arranged along the track, ready to meet the oncoming train. ‘Crewe, aim your rifle at the driver. That should send a message.’
‘Okay, Eleanor.’
She looked into the distance. The dark plain was cut by two perfect lines of silver, and she could see the lights of the train there in the distance, seemingly unmoving. And yet the train was rushing to meet her with incredible momentum. How long would it take to stop the behemoth, she wondered.
The radio crackled. Crewe spoke again.
‘I aimed the rifle. I don’t think it worked, though. That train is still going by, and it doesn’t look to me like it’s slowing.’
‘Thank you, Crewe,’ said Eleanor. She looked back across the plain, coming to a decision. She clicked the radio back on. ‘Seth,’ she called. ‘Shoot out the windshield.’
The headlights of the train were noticeably larger now. A high-pitched hum insinuated its way through the night, and Eleanor realized she was hearing the reaction motor. The radio crackled to life.
‘I got it.’
‘Well done, Seth.’
‘I think that got her attention!’
Eleanor heard the hum of the reaction motor change in pitch. The train was slowing down.
