Copernick's Rebellion

Chapter Nine JUNE 20, 2003

“I’m sorry that it had to be you, George,” General Powers said. “You were right in doing what you did, and it certainly wasn’t your fault that the bomber crashed. But political realities force me to relieve you of your command.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Officially, our position is that you went insane because of the death of your family some years ago. You will be assigned to a psychiatric ward under sedation for about a month. By that time we should have a final solution to this bioengineering problem, and your name can be cleared,” Powers said.

“A month or so in the funny farm won’t kill me, sir.”

“No point in that. I said ‘officially.’ Actually, I’d just like you to go away for a while. Take a vacation somewhere. You’ll know when you should come back.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And have a good time.”

Hastings cut himself a set of orders assigning himself to the 315th Fighter-Bomber Squadron at Westover Field, Massachusetts. Then he cut a second set reassigning himself, his plane, and one atomic bomb to the Naval Testing Lab in San Diego.

Eight hours after leaving General Powers’ office, Hastings was flying his F-38 Penetrator at forty thousand feet over the Utah desert. Death Valley was thirty minutes away.

“Like the man said, if you want something done right, you’d better do it yourself,” Hastings said aloud to himself.

Directly below him, a single mindless larva was sinking its solid diamond teeth into a contact pin of an electrical connector. This connector was mounted directly to the solid-fuel rocket that powered the F-38’s ejection seat. The contact tasted bad, like gold, so the larva crawled to the next pin to see if it was aluminum. In the process, its aluminum body touched both contacts simultaneously and the resulting electrical current killed it. It also ignited the solid fuel rocket, which blasted Hastings out through the F-38’s plastic canopy.

Hastings was unconscious, but his flight suit had been designed for use at L-5. It protected him from the cold and near vacuum. At five thousand feet, his parachute opened automatically.

The plane had been set on full automatic and programmed to fly to San Diego, so that its transponder could assure Ground Control that the aircraft’s flight plan was being followed. It continued the journey without pilot or canopy, made a perfect landing on its assigned runway, and stopped, awaiting further instructions. Within minutes it was visited by an egg-laying mosquito.

The crash truck was unable to go out to the plane to investigate. A larva had eaten a hole in the truck’s fuel pump.

The swans looked like ordinary birds, and so attracted little attention. Bored radar operators noticed unusual migration patterns, and properly logged them. But the logs were not due to reach the scientific community for months, and actually would never be examined at all.

Each swan died and fell in the center of its assigned area. Copernick had decided that the food trees, and thus the population, should be scattered as far as possible, to limit the possibility of riots and plagues and to keep them isolated when they occurred.

But if the scientific community failed to notice the swans, the animal community did not. Over half the fallen swans were eaten by animals or other birds. This possibility had been taken into account. The seeds were hard, small, and indigestible. They sprouted, absorbing the flesh around them. The scavengers died, and provided additional fertilizer.

Less than a hundred swans were eaten by people, and cooking destroyed most of the seeds. In eleven cases the swans were not properly cooked, and the people died.

But people who eat raw carrion do not notify authorities when a death occurs. Nor do they perform autopsies or embalm their dead. The trees grew.

Two hundred and eighteen professional biologists across the world found first-generation larvae and excitedly took them into labs to study. Incredible! An insect with a biochemistry different from anything previously known. They hurriedly prepared preliminary reports, each expecting to be the first to publish.

A first-generation larva had been laid on the wing of a DC-16. Unnoticed in the course of three days, it ate its way into the tubular aluminum wing strut. There it metamorphosed into a mosquito, which was unable to fly out of the two hundred-foot sealed chamber. It laid its thousand eggs along the length of the wing and died.

Two days later a thousand larvae were contentedly munching away. Eleven hundred passengers were aboard the Qantas airliner, with a crew of forty taking them from Los Angeles where it was midsummer to Melbourne in the middle of its whiter. Skirting a hurricane south of Hawaii, the left whig sheared off. There were no survivors.

Another first-generation egg was laid on the side of an aging space shuttle. It was just burrowing its way into the cabin at takeoff, and the small air leak wasn’t noticed until the ship was in orbit. The larva ate its way into the cargo compartment and then into the chassis of a strip-chart recorder. With its cargo unloaded at a station in a low polar orbit, the shuttle returned. Its departure left the wheel-shaped space station with only one small ship capable of landing on Earth. The larva metamorphosed in a biology lab during a sleep period and laid eight hundred eggs before an astronomer swatted it. None of these eggs reached maturity; many of them were blown out into space when they ate through the outer walls. The rest died when the station became airless.

Thanks to automatic alarms, 820 of the station’s 957 people aboard were able to get into intact space suits in time.

By then no spacecraft on Earth was able to take off, primarily due to punctures in their fuel tanks.

Due to their low polar orbit, no other station could help them in time.

The station’s only functional ship was capable of landing a cargo of only twelve thousand pounds. The station commander, a 180-pound man, decided to save the maximum number of people, and so ordered the ship to be filled on the basis of weight. There were no acts of violence, and only minimal objections to the plan. One hundred and nineteen persons, mostly small women, were loaded aboard.

The ship made it safely to Earth. Seven hundred and one people in orbit died with dignity.

They would have received more sympathy if those on Earth hadn’t had troubles of their own.

The metallic larvae ate thin sheet metal along its entire thickness, cutting irregular slashes in car fenders, aircraft wings, and missile hulls.

Fuel tanks were among the first components to be rendered useless. While two percent of the world’s aircraft crashed and one percent of the land vehicles were wrecked due to mechanical failures, the great majority of them sat on their runways and driveways and simply fell to pieces.

The left engine on Lou von Bork’s Cessna 882 Super Conquest died within a second of the right.

“Seat belts, gang!” He shouted over the intercom: “We are going down.”

Senator Beinheimer had been dozing in the copilot’s chair. “What? What’s up, Lou, boy?”

“It looks like we’re out of fuel, Moe.” Von Bork tried to restart the turbo props, then gave up and feathered his propellers.

“Out of fuel? But we just tanked up at Fort Scott!” Beinheimer said.

“I know, but for the last ten minutes the fuel gauges have been moving left like you wouldn’t believe. I was hoping that it was an electrical problem until the motors quit. We must have sprung a leak.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“It’s not that bad, Moe. We’re still at thirty-one thousand feet, so we have ten minutes to find a soft place to land. And in Kanssas, that’s not all that hard to do. At least I think we’re still in Kansas.”

“You think? I thought that Loran gizmo of yours was supposed to tell you where you were within a hundred yards.”

“It does, usually, only it started to act up just after takeoff. It’s trying to tell me that we’re over Kentucky.”

“You gotta believe your instruments, boy. First rule of instrument flight.”

“Moe, we left Fort Scott, Kansas, fifty-five minutes ago. I have been flying into the sunset since then. This plane cruises at three hundred forty knots. Those are wheat fields down there. I’m not going to believe that I’ve flown five hundred forty miles due east.”

“Well, hadn’t you better radio for help?”

“The radio’s quit working, too. Both of them.”

After hearing the news about the attempted bombing of Life Valley, von Bork had spent a day collecting up his two secretaries, Senator Beinheimer, and the staff of the Crystal City installation. He had piled them, along with absolutely no baggage, into his Cessna and topped off his fuel tanks. The senator’s name was sufficient to get them immediate clearance for takeoff at 1545.

Dusk was coming down even more rapidily than the twin engine turbo prop. Very few lights showed in the farming country, and none of those lit up a suitable stretch of highway.

Von Bork continued due west, heading for Life Valley, hoping that a lighted highway or—please God!—an airport would appear.

At a thousand feet, he settled for the planted field up ahead. Lowering his landing gear and flaps (they worked!), he came in to what he thought was a wheat field.

“Dear God… dear God… dear God,” Beinheimer muttered, clutching the armrest with fear-whitened fingers.

“That the only prayer you know, Moe?”

“The only one, by God, but it’s sincere! After this, I’ll learn some more. I swear I will!”

“Hang on, gang!” von Bork shouted into the intercom. “The old barnstormers could do it, and we’re only eighty ahead of them in technology!”

Von Bork was no farm boy, and what with the speed, altitude, and darkness, he was wrong about it being a wheat field; it was corn, tall Kansas corn.

The Cessna’s landing gear had been designed for use on a surface infinitely harder than rich, tilled soil. All three wheels sheared off within twenty yards of touchdown. This was good, because von Bork’s air-speed indicator had been rendered grossly inaccurate by two metal-munching larva. He had come in more than eighty knots too fast.

The Cessna sliced through the mile-wide cornfield, narrowly missing the center pivot irrigation machine. The wings took an amazing beating, each cornstalk sending its own thump through the airframe.

The plane had slowed to sixty before the wing strut gave way almost exactly in the center and both wings tore off together. This too was lucky, for had one gone before the other, the plane would have rolled.

The battered fuselage skidded to a stop, and all was suddenly quiet.

Von Bork took his hands from the wheel, hardly able to believe it was over and he was alive. He said into the intercom: “How’s it going back there?”

“We’re all okay, Mr. von Bork.”

“Well,” von Bork said to Beinheimer, “I guess that was a good landing.”

Public consternation was, of course, extreme. Every political body in the world sat in emergency session. Crash programs and task forces were funded, but none had time to accomplish anything. Research takes years. The larvae took only days. Accusations and counter—accusations flashed across national borders.

India abruptly ceased all communication with the rest of the world on the same day that the swans flew. Israel, the fifth most powerful nation after Russia, the U.S., China, and India, took her silence as an admission of guilt for the metal-eating plague. The Israelis’ aircraft and missiles were already useless, but their tanks were made of thicker metal. Even perforated with holes, char—bram armor could stop most projectiles, and turbine engines contain little iron or aluminum. Damaged fuel tanks were fitted with plastic liners, gun barrels were given a cursory inspection, and the attack was launched.

The last tank stopped twenty kilometers from its depot. A tread weakened by hundreds of holes had broken.

So ended the last mechanized war the world would ever see.

Radio and television stations suspended their regular programming, devoting their time to emergency broadcasts, but the messages from the world’s governments were monotonously similar: “Don’t panic. Stay in your homes. We’ll take care of you.”

But there was nothing that anyone could do.

Air time was also allotted to religious programs. A thousand priests, ministers, and shamans called on as many gods to help them, but the gods remained silent.

Many of the religious leaders proclaimed that the end of the world was at hand. And in a sense, they were right.

Trains, being made of thicker metal, lasted a week longer than cars or trucks. Their last freights were mostly food and water for the cities; very few places on Earth had more than a week’s supply of food on hand. Canned food became useless as the cans were slashed and destroyed. And the larvae soon riddled the refrigerator units that kept frozen food fresh. The trucks and trains that once brought fresh supplies no longer existed.

The food trees sprouted quickly, and each grew six vines that spread out evenly for fifteen feet and then generated new roots at these spots. The space between was quickly covered with heart-shaped leaves, close to the ground. Each leaf had a red cross at its center. Though Guibedo had no love for the Red Cross (or any other organization, for that matter), the red cross was the only symbol of help that he could think of that was universally known.

In six weeks each food plant would cover forty acres of land. Trees and other plants that were in the way were absorbed with remarkable rapidity. Animals found their leaves to be bitter and spat them out; those that persisted, died. Farmers who tried to uproot the new weed found that it recovered in hours. Herbicides were ineffective.

In two months the dense ground cover would start to rise as tree trunks grew in a triangular pattern every fifteen feet. The trunks would grow to be eight feet tall. Only then, three months from planting, once there was enough photosynthetic area, would they start to produce food gourds on their trunks. But each tree could feed a thousand people.

“The bridge is out,” Senator Beinheimer said.

A farmer had driven the ten of them into town, at which point the truck’s engine failed due to a larva hole in the oil gallery.

Three days in Bristol, Colorado, convinced von Bork that transportation was not available, and would probably never be available.

Striking out on foot, they headed west.

The two men and six women who were subordinate to von Bork were all Rejuves. They all had more than sixty years of experience. They all had healthy twenty-year-old bodies. Among them, they had a vast array of useful knowledge. How to pick mushrooms, how to dig roots, how to trap rabbits, and how to build shelter. Traveling upstream along the Arkansas River, they survived well. The senator was able to keep up, though his bones ached.

It took them a month to cross the Colorado Plains and the Rocky Mountains. Now, on the downhill side, the road came quite literally to an end.

“I said the bridge is out.”

“Obviously,” von Bork said. “But that is the Gunnison River, and the Gunnison empties into the Colorado, and the Colorado pours into Lake Mead, spitting distance from Life Valley.”

“You crazy, boy? You’re talking about maybe a thousand miles of white water.”

“True. I’m also talking about riding instead of walking. Personally, I’m sick of walking. Who’s with me?”

“We’re always with you, Mr. von Bork.”

Senator Beinheimer was the last one down.

Within a mile, they found an abandoned twelve-man rubber raft.

Antenna towers are held stable by long steel cables, and when these were eaten through, the towers fell. Radio and TV stations went off the air.

The orbiting communications satellites still operated but their crews could give no useful information to the people below because they themselves had no way of finding out what was happening.

These stations, and those on the moon, were largely self-sufficient, and could survive several years without help from Earth. But they could provide no help in return.

The world’s electrical power was cut off, as power towers crumpled and high-voltage wires crashed to the Earth. There was no way for most people to listen to the satellite broadcasts.

No insects had been spread over the oceans, so ships at sea were generally not affected until they came to land. There they were promptly plagued by egg-laying mosquitoes. Most of them sank at the docks, their hulls riddled with holes. Some left and tried to make it to their home ports, and, of these, some made it back. But those that didn’t went down with all hands, as the lifeboats were in worse shape than the ships themselves.

Small sailing craft, with plastic hulls and brass fittings, were largely unaffected. Most of these left port with jury-rigged wooden masts and manilla stays, their owners, or those who had stolen them, planning to eke out some sort of survival by fishing.

The old, the infirm, the hospitalized were the worst affected. In some cases, the doctors resorted to euthanasia. In most, the ill were simply abandoned when nothing more could be done for them. In a few cases, dedicated medical staffs stayed with their patients.

Several thousand self-proclaimed messiahs, quoting the Bible, the Talmud, the Koran, or one of a hundred similar texts, or claiming special divine, scientific, or political knowledge, gathered flocks eager to follow anyone who seemed to know what he was doing. Their net effect was beneficial, for many of these leaders led their people out of the cities.

Without electrical power or water, cities became uninhabitable. Sanitation became nonexistent, and plagues broke out on a scale unknown since the Middle Ages.

Mindless looting, murder, and rape became commonplace. Those authorities that still existed had neither communications nor weapons nor transportation. They were largely powerless, and few could do anything but protect themselves.

Most people formed into small, local groups and were able to maintain some form of order within their tiny territories as the lawbreakers were no better armed and generally less well coordinated.

A great, silvered parabolic dish was constructed in Life Valley, targeted on a functioning communications satellite, and a message transmitted. With nothing else to transmit, the operators relayed it all over the globe on the commercial VHF and UHF frequencies.

Consumer electronics contain little or no ion or aluminum. And those with battery-operated radios and televisions heard it.

The voice was Heinrich Copernick’s, although, for linguistic reasons, the speaker was the CCU.

“I am Heinrich Copernick. I have a message that is vital to your welfare. Be patient, and it will be repeated in your own language. An English-language broadcast will begin in ten minutes.” These lines, with appropriate broadcast times, were then repeated in Russian, Chinese, French, German, Hindustani, and fifty-three other languages and dialects.

“We are in the midst of a devastating and historically unprecedented plague,” it continued in English. “As you are doubtless well aware, it is caused by an insect that is capable of metabolizing iron and aluminum. It has spread with incredible rapidity across the entire globe.

“The biological metabolism of metals is not unprecedented. Iron bacteria have plagued corrosion engineers for many years. It is possible that these insects carry such bacteria, or have somehow incorporated DNA from these bacteria into their chromosomes.

“It seems a law of nature that everything that can be eaten eventually will be eaten. Every possible ecological niche is eventually filled. Nature has finally caught up with us, at least insofar as our two most common metals are concerned.

“Mankind is indeed fortunate that my uncle, Dr. Martin Guibedo, has developed a means of supplying food and shelter that does not depend on the metals we once used. I am speaking, of course, of the tree houses.

“You are doubtless familiar with them. Just previous to the plague, an estimated three percent of the world’s population was living in them. These tree houses are capable of supporting, for a few months and at a bare sustenance level, ten times the number of people currently living with them. There is room for one third of humanity in the adult trees that already exist, and for all of humanity in the young trees that are now maturing.

“Those of you now living in tree houses are urged to be generous. You must do this because all men are brothers; we cannot allow our brothers to starve needlessly.

“And you must do this for your own self-protection, for a hungry man with a hungry family is a dangerous man. The people you invite into your homes can help protect you from the marauding gangs that now infest our world.

“As mayor of a tree-house city growing in what was once Death Valley, I invite anyone who can come to join us. Our citizens are planting tree houses to accommodate you. We will do what we can to make your walk here as comfortable as possible.

“In addition to this, we have planted ten million food trees across the Earth. Each of these trees will, in two months’ time, be able to feed one thousand people. Alone they will be able to feed all of humanity. Eat only the food pods that grow from the trunks. The leaves and branches are poisonous. These trees were designed by Dr. Martin Guibedo to combat the present crisis. One of them should now be growing for every five square miles of our Earth’s land. As each covers forty acres of land, they will be easy enough to spot. Each leaf has a small red cross in the center.

“Because of the emergency, these trees were planted hurriedly and without regard to property rights. While we normally respect property rights, racial survival comes first.

“Those of you who are living in cities and heavily populated areas must leave them at once. Staying where you are, you are in serious danger of dying from disease, fire, or starvation. Take what food and clothing you can, join others for self-protection, and head for the most isolated area you can find. Odds are a food tree will be there. If you go far enough, you will find food.

“Besides developing new forms of plants, we have also developed several new forms of animals. One of these is called a Labor and Defense Unit. They resemble a walking kitchen table and I am afraid that they are rather ugly to look at, but they are honest policemen and good doctors. They are intelligent, fast, and deadly.

“There are now one million LDUs. This is a very small force compared with the world’s population, but it seems to be the only one capable of acting on a worldwide basis. Because of this we are declaring martial law.

“Murder, slavery, and the wanton destruction of food supplies, including tree houses and food trees, are hereby declared capital offenses. LDUs have been ordered to kill immediately anyone found committing these offenses.

“It is not our intention to infringe the rights of any organized group. We will support any group capable of maintaining order within its local area, and we urge everyone to form such groups for mutual aid and self-protection, provided that obvious standards of conduct are maintained.

“To summarize, there is more than enough food for everyone, but you must leave the cities to find it.

“And a force of intelligent, strange-looking animals will be helping to maintain law and order. Please give them your complete cooperation.

“I am Heinrich Copernick. I have a message that is vital to your welfare. Be patient, and it will be repeated in your own language. The next English-language broadcast will begin in twelve hours.”

Guibedo, Copernick, Mona, Patricia, Liebchen, and Dirk listened to the broadcast in the living room at Oakwood, Guibedo’s home.

“Heiny, you make me out for such a hero, I get embarrassed,” Guibedo said, switching off the radio.

“You deserve it, Uncle Martin. It’s about time you got some recognition for your accomplishments. But when times are rough—and they’ve never been worse—people need to know that there is someone, someplace, who can and will help them. They need a hero to keep their spirits up, and you’re handy.”

“Well, I still get embarrassed.”

“At least now there will be fewer people trying to kill you,” Copernick said.

“Kill Martin!” Patricia was horrified, and Mona was startled. Liebchen was immediately in tears.

“Nobody did it,” Guibedo said with his arms around Patricia and Liebchen. “Thanks mostly to Dirk and his buddies. We didn’t tell you about it because there wasn’t any point to making you worry.”

“Thank you, Dirk,” Patricia said, gently stroking the LDU’s feathery back. Gently, because he had been badly burned in the fire a month before. LDUs with their four-stranded DNA healed almost as slowly as humans did. By comparison, the fauns, Ohura and Colleen, far more seriously injured, were almost completely well, although Ohura’s hair was still short and Colleen’s new leg was still three inches shorter than her old one.

Liebchen was considerably more demonstrative than Patricia, jumping up and hugging Dirk as best she could. She kissed both of his eye stalks and then began working her way around his oval body, kissing all eight of his fixed eyes. Dirk caressed her back, and if her actions caused him any pain, he didn’t show it.

“You know,” Guibedo said, “I think they’re in love.”

“As you know, my lord, we’re both incapable of the romantic love of bisexual beings,” Dirk said. “Though I must confess that I rather enjoy having her around. Still, I wish I could join my brothers who are leaving tomorrow. There is so much work to do and so few to do it.”

“Somebody has got to mind the store,” Guibedo said. “Only twenty of you will be left in the valley, and all of you are injured. You’ll have your share of work.”

“The Aerial Defense Units will be ready in six months to back up your brothers,” Copernick added.

“I wish there was something I could do,” Patricia said.

“I think there is, Patty,” Mona said. “Let’s you and me load Winnie up with food and tree-house seeds and head out to the coast. A lot of people must be in trouble out there.”

“Not a bad idea,” Copernick said. “But not to the coast. You can have no idea how savage it’s gotten in the cities. I wouldn’t object to your going east.”

“But the cities are where we could do the most amount of good,” Mona protested.

“No. You’ll be able to save a given number of lives in whatever direction you go. I will not permit the mother of my children to risk her life unnecessarily.”

“Oh, all right.” Mona thought that bringing the kids into the argument was remarkably poor form.

“Well, it’s not all right with me. Just you two girls out there alone?” Guibedo said, ignoring the fact that Mona was stronger than most men, including himself.

“Oh, Martin,” Patricia said. “We’ll have Winnie, and you know how strong he is.”

“That walking house trailer is strong, but dumb. Dirk, could you fight in an emergency?”

“I’m a bit in pain, my lord, but it doesn’t degrade my efficiency.”

“So you can ride inside and keep an eye on things. And we can keep in touch through you, too.”

“Oh, I want to go, too!” Liebchen got five cold stares. “Oh, please. Ohura and Colleen can take care of the children now, and Ishtar can watch my babies. Oh, please, please, I won’t get in the way. I promise.”

Saying no to Liebchen was usually too much trouble to be worth it, and this was no exception. The five of them would leave in the morning.

The suspension bridges were all down, and steel trusses were getting shaky. Skyscrapers had already started to collapse, their steel frames riddled with larvae holes. It would be a month or so before the larvae would get hard enough up to eat the nails out of houses, but the day would come.

Long lines of refugees streamed out of the cities. They were pitiful to look at, though most of them were well dressed. Many were hurt, more were sick, and most were hungry. They pushed homemade wooden carts and dragged plastic sleds.

Behind them and around them the cities were crumbling and burning.

Claymore was climbing a sheer sandstone cliff. He moved swiftly, deftly finding footholds, his four camel—like legs moving with insect swiftness. His rigid body was a light tan color, to match his background.

While his forward ganglia controlled his ascent, his central ganglia took command of his eye tentacles—the fixed eyes were sufficient for navigation—and spread them wide for a good view of the human city at his back.

Even from this height and distance, the city was a shambles. The suspension bridge had already fallen, its center span deep underwater. One of its steel towers was down and the other was leaning drunkenly. A nearby truss bridge still held—and might hold for days yet—but in the end it, too, would be rubble and rust. There was no motor traffic on the bridge. There was none anywhere. The cars and trains and planes were falling apart on their driveways and sidings and runways. On schedule.

The bridge was dotted with humans. Claymore adjusted his tentacle eyes for telescopic vision, to study them more closely. Well dressed, most of them, but they trudged slowly under heavy burdens. They were dirty and probably thirsty. The water mains had gone out four days before. Getting enough water to live wouldn’t be a serious problem, but the food situation was serious. Trucks had stopped arriving from the countryside a week ago. This troubled him, for ten thousand of these humans were his personal responsibility.

Nearing the top of the cliff, he scanned out to the west. About half of the power towers had fallen. The lines had been dead for days. As he watched, one more went, slowly crashing into the rustred dust. The center of the city was mostly empty. Two of the tallest buildings had fallen so far, clogging the main intersections. The few people still there moved quickly, furtively watching the remaining buildings. He focused in on one of them. Shabbily dressed and remarkably dirty, this man picked up a brick from a fallen skyscraper and threw it through a large window in a still-standing building. Afraid to go too far inside, he leaned past the broken glass and began filling a canvas bag with the contents of the display window.

Claymore focused closer, curious as to what this human was risking his life to get. Baubles! Crystallized carbon, gold, and silver. Crystallized aluminum oxide with a small percentage of chromium or magnesium. The stuff seemed to have no useful purpose except personal adornment. This human had collected more of it than he could carry. Strange. Contrasurvival.

A block over, another human, a female, was filling a plastic case with green paper certificates. Weird. But there was nothing in Claymore’s directives against it, so he scanned on.

He reached the top of the cliff and had to use his humanoid hands to make it over the lip. From there he turned back to “face” the crumbling city. Not that he had a face, or even a head. His body turned a brownish green to match the grass below his feet.

Scanning to the north, he saw a large group of humans crossing a shaky bridge to an island in the river. Trouble. As soon as transmission space was available, he thought to those below.

Claymore here. Is anyone near the island two miles due north of the city?

Jarid here, Claymore. I am. What can I do for you?

Claymore here. There are approximately twenty-three hundred humans crossing over to that island. The bridge leaving it is down, but they can’t see that from where they’re at. When the bridge they’re using goes they’ll be stranded. We’ll probably lose half of them.

Jarid here. I’ll get on it. Where are you calling from?

Claymore here. I’m on top of the sandstone cliffs south of the city.

Jarid here. I see you now. I suggest you stay there and direct us down here. We have only eighty-two LDUs here to take care of almost two million people. I wish we had some observation birds.

Claymore stifled a sob.

Claymore here. Will do. There are some strange things going on in the city.

Jarid here. Like what?

Claymore here. Humans in the city are foraging for baubles rather than food.

Jarid here. So? It’s what they usually do. Where have you been? The subject was discussed a week ago.

Claymore here. I just came out of shock. I lost my bird a month ago bringing down a bomber. But I’m functional now.

Jarid here. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were a Beta unit. From your name, I mean.

Claymore here. A claymore was a mine as well as a sword. I’m functionally an Alpha now. I’ll get used to it.

Jarid here. I’m sure you will. We’re a tough species. To fill you in on your earlier question, the consensus is that humans were never programmed to handle their present problems. The result is a clinging to obsolete value systems and generally aberrant behavior. Jarid out.

The above conversation took less than a second.

Claymore continued his scanning, occasionally making suggestions to other LDUs below. There were minor outbreaks and riots among the humans, but at least the LDUs didn’t have to face metallic weapons anymore.

Claymore! Gamma 5723 here. Go directly south at top speed. I’ll explain when you’re on your way.

Gamma units were somewhat telepathic with humans, that is, they could hear humans think, although they generally couldn’t talk to them. A recent development, they were few in number and so they generally concentrated on major emergencies. When a Gamma made a suggestion, an Alpha moved fast.

Claymore here. I’m on my way. What’s up?

Gamma 5723 here. Go one mile due south, then right, onto a gravel road. In approximately one mile you will come to a stone cabin on your right. There you will find six adult human males and one adult human female. The males are presently sequentially raping the female.

Claymore here. Rape? Oh, yes, One of the humans’ bisexual reproduction customs. Considered improper in most human cultures. But why trouble me with it? Rape is not on the forbidden list of human activities.

Gamma 5723 here. I’m not concerned with the rape. That’s been going on for hours. The house is the property of the female, and its construction is such that it will probably survive the present emergency. Furthermore, it contains a large supply of dehydrated camper’s food in plastic packages. The males have decided to kill the female to more easily take her property. Also, the males are presently despoiling some of the food supply.

Claymore here. Murder and destroying food are certainly forbidden activities for humans. But their actions are so irrational! Why destroy part of a food supply that is necessary to your own survival? And why go through the bother of impregnating a female of your own species when you are going to terminate her before she can possibly reproduce?

Gamma 5723 here. It has been some time since I heard of a human being accused of rationality.

Claymore here. But it’s countersurvival.

Gamma 5723 here. Very. Especially when you’ll be there in three minutes. I’m afraid you’ll have to go in alone. None of our brothers are near enough to help in time.

Claymore here. What would I need with help? I mean, if there are only six of them…

Gamma 5723 here. Unfortunately, one of them has a weapon, a semiautomatic thirty-caliber carbine.

Claymore here. Oh. That does complicate things. I thought that we had disposed of all of their iron and aluminum artifacts.

Gamma 5723 here. We pretty much have. But in this instance the human deduced what was happening. He sealed the weapon in an airtight plastic bag before it could become contaminated. The weapon is operational. The human plans to fire it through the bag and then reseal it. He has fifteen rounds in the clip.

Claymore here. Which means I’m up against an intelligent armed human, despite his irrationalities.

Gamma 5723 here. Good luck. Gamma 5723 out.

By this time, Claymore was fifty yards from the cliff and accelerating. He was on a partially wooded plateau, with short flat sections cut by deep fissures, some of them over forty feet wide. Most of these he could jump, but he had to circle some of them. On one occasion he had to climb a hundred yards down and up again just to travel eighty feet forward. It was maddeningly slow, and it took him more than six minutes to travel the two miles to the cabin. Most of the way he had to wind through forests, and he was hoping for good cover for his approach to the cabin.

No such luck. The cabin was in the center of an abandoned farm, with at least four hundred yards of open field in every direction. Claymore thrust his eye tentacles out through the foliage to survey his objective. It was a small building, perhaps two thousand square feet, and ancient, with stone walls and wooden window frames. The roof beams were heavy logs and—yes— pegged together. Aside from the door hinges, this would be one of the few buildings to remain intact. Certainly something a human would covet.

A human male was standing on the roof, his legs wide, turning occasionally to survey the terrain. He was holding the carbine.

Nothing for it but a direct frontal attack, into superior firepower. Had Claymore understood swearing, he would have done so. As it was, he picked up a half-dozen throwing-size rocks and launched himself at his opponent.

He went straight toward his opponent at first, carefully controlling his body color to match his background, watching his footfalls to make the least possible noise while moving at the highest possible speed, close to sixty mph. With luck, he would be close before he was noticed. Possibly the human had never seen an LDU before and would hesitate to fire. Also, heading straight in, he presented the least possible frontal area to his opponent’s gunfire. On the other hand, if he did take a hit, it would tear through six feet of his flesh. A single round could conceivably take out half of his ganglia, lungs, or hearts.

Claymore was halfway there when the human saw him and brought up his weapon. The LDU sidestepped rapidly, then shifted into a fast form of broken field running. The human fired at one hundred yards, and the bullet narrowly missed the LDU’s left forward fixed eye. It streaked across his back not quite breaking the skin, but knocking the wind out of his left lung. The pain was incredible. Claymore stumbled and almost fell. But his right lung was still sucking it in in front and blowing it out behind. He kept running. The brass cartridge ejected into the plastic bag and the carbine was ready to fire again. The human was a hunter and took careful aim.

Claymore. Gamma 5723 here. Immediate attack is no longer necessary. The human female just died. You might as well wait until reinforcements arrive.

Claymore here. Now you tell me. I am in the midst of a solo frontal assault. At this point retreating would be more dangerous than pressing forward.

Gamma 5723 here. I got involved with a situation in Utah. I’ll apologize if I get you killed.

Claymore here. Apologize now.

Gamma 5723 here. Okay. I apologize.

Claymore here. It’s all right. Claymore out.

The next round missed him. He was fifty yards from the cabin now and zigzagging rapidly.

Claymore was working his way towards the woodpile, from which he could easily vault to the roof. He threw one of his rocks at the human just as the rifle was firing again. This time the human did not miss. The slug tore through Claymore’s right arm between the elbow and shoulder, shattering the bone. The thrown rock missed the man but barely touched the plastic bag as the cartridge was ejecting. The spent brass bounced back toward the chamber, jamming the bolt temporarily. One bit of good luck, anyway.

As the LDU bounded to the top of the woodpile, his right lateral tentacles extended and pulled his wounded arm to his side. At the same time, he dropped the rocks in his left hand and extended his dagger-claw. This razor sharp knife-shaped claw was normally sheathed in his forearm, out of the way. Extended, it went a foot past his knuckles.

The human was clearing his weapon, tearing the plastic bag in the process, as Claymore landed on the roof. The carbine was coming down fast, but the LDU was faster. He got his dagger-claw between the man’s arms and made an efficient upward thrust two inches behind and under the man’s chin. It went up through the base of the brain. Death was instantaneous.

The weapon fired once more as it hit the roof, sending a round into the house below. A human screamed in pain.

Claymore disengaged himself from the corpse and picked up the carbine. He was familiar with the theory of firearms, but he had never actually fired one. He tried to hold it as he had seen the human do, but with only one arm and a vastly different anatomy, it was impractical. He held it in his left hand like a pistol and fired a tentative round into the roof.

“Damn it, Jim! Cut that out,” sounded from below.

No. The rifle was completely unsuitable for use by a one-armed LDU in close combat. Still, he had to disable it, and he might as well do that by expending the ammunition. Claymore emptied the clip into the roof at random places. There were cries of anger, but no more cries of pain were heard. His arm was beginning to throb, although his left lung had started working again. He considered calling for help and letting somebody else do the mop-up.

“Now what the hell are you up to?” A man came out of the house angry, then started up in disbelief. In one hand he carried a long shiny knife. Titanium. This group had apparently foraged rationally.

Claymore was still holding the empty rifle, and saw no reason to miss a chance at an opponent. He threw the rifle down hard, striking the man in the forehead with the butt, caving in his skull.

Another human ran from the house, ignored his fallen comrade, and picked up the carbine. He tore a clip of ammunition from a plastic bag. This was a possibility that Claymore hadn’t considered, but there was nothing to do now but rush him, broken arm or no. He leaped from the roof as the man was turning to look up, landing with both front feet on the man’s head. Claymore weighed three hundred pounds, and the man’s neck snapped easily. Three down. Maybe four. He picked up the carbine as the last three humans boiled out of the house, swinging clubs.

Claymore turned to meet them with his good arm holding the carbine by the barrel. Fighting with his dagger-claw would have been more efficient, but he was reluctant to let go of the weapon again. It was loaded and with only one hand, he couldn’t remove the clip. He decided to use it as a club.

The men fought well as a team, trying to encircle him, and Claymore had to retreat. The man with the bleeding leg stumbled a bit and the LDU was on him, ducking a downward blow, and following with a roundhouse swing that connected with the man’s neck. Four.

He ran over the downed man and swung around wide to catch the next human in line alone. Ducking under a lateral swing, he rammed the carbine butt into the man’s solar plexus, and followed with a down stroke to the head. Five.

Claymore discarded the carbine now that there was no one behind him to pick it up. He attacked the last man. Seeing his five comrades die within a minute was too much for the fellow. He dropped his club and fled. The LDU was on him in three paces and, with a single hack, severed the man’s neck bones and spinal cord. All.

Claymore walked back to the house, his right arm throbbing and bleeding slowly. As he passed each man, he slit each throat to be sure of a clean kill.

He found what was left of the human female in the bedroom.

Claymore. Gamma 5723 here. How did it go?

Claymore here. Mission accomplished. All six males are deleted. The female took a long time dying. I wish you had called me sooner.

Gamma 5723 here. I wish I could be everywhere, or that there were more of me. When I contacted this group two hours ago, it didn’t look too serious. I didn’t check up on them again until ten minutes ago. I wish I could tell her I was sorry.

Claymore here. And why did they use such an inefficient method of killing her?

Gamma 5723 here. Someday, Claymore, we’ll sit around the barracks and have a long talk. Right now I have work to do. Gamma 5723 out.

The dirt was too shallow for burial, so Claymore re—stacked the woodpile into a rectangle seven feet by fourteen by five feet high and dragged the seven bodies to the top of it. He found a glass jug of kerosene and some matches in the house, said the ritual prayers that humans were fond of, and lit it afire.

Whoever is on duty at the Central Coordination Unit. Claymore here.

Dirk here for the CCU. Shoot.

Claymore here. Don’t say that. I did and I was. I’ve been in action that resulted in a bullet breaking my right arm. Request permission to return to Life Valley for R and R.

There was a three-second delay.

Dirk here. Permission granted. The luck you’ve had. You’re out of action for a month losing your bird, and now, thirty minutes after getting to your duty station, you’re coming back again.

Claymore here. Those are the breaks.

Dirk here. Well, if you’re still punning, you can’t be too bad off. I’ll tell Ishtar you’re coming. Dirk out.

Others were not as bad off. The farmers lost their machinery and most of their houses, but they were traditionally self-reliant. In the northern hemisphere, the crops were ready for harvest. For the first time in many years, there was a surplus of eager, if unskilled, labor.

In general, the less technically advanced were the least affected. The few remaining Eskimos were annoyed when their outboard motors, snowmobiles, and rifles were eaten, but the old ones knew how to do without such things. They taught the younger men, and gained considerable prestige and security.

Except for Hawaii and other islands with military bases, the Pacific was not plagued with the metal-eating larvae. On the Marshall out-islands, the people listened to their radios with detached interest. The troubles of the outside world provided a useful source of gossip, nothing more. Little had ever been done to them, and less for them. Bare-breasted native girls danced, laughing, at the usual ceremonies.

Throughout the underdeveloped world, crowded masses trudged on in despair, as they had done for a hundred years. Yet, in many, there was a glow of hope. They had been promised enough food for all. If that was true, it was indeed a blessing, because no one could remember a time when there had been enough for everyone.

In the American west, many American Indians were happy. Organized, intelligent, and poor, but with plenty of land, they had wholeheartedly accepted the tree houses as soon as the seeds had become available. Over half the American Indian population already lived in tree houses, so the larvae did not cause them extreme inconveniences.

The old chiefs, the wise men, the men of power were smugly contented. As they had so often predicted, the insanities of the white man had finally caught up with him. They had even heard one of them admit as much on the radio, and in their own language. Before the radios went silent, the old ways would return, and perhaps even the buffalo.

The young men were not content, but eager. They remembered the old stories, and told them to each other. The time of defeat and drudgery and shame was over. There would again be a time when skill and courage and honor counted.

Russia went the way of Europe and North America, with a breakdown of communications and central authority. From her crumbling cities came the long lines of refugees. Her countryside, too, was in a difficult position, as the workers on the large collective farms did not have the tradition of self-reliance that kept farmers in other parts of the world relatively unaffected.

China was in relatively good shape. The large population was dispersed, and not far from food supplies. In sixty years the farms had only been lightly mechanized; that work was wasted, but survival was not a serious problem.

Japan’s problems were most serious. Tree houses had never really caught on there, and most of its food had been brought to her ports on ships that were no more. The Japanese could only hope that the voice on the radio had told the truth.

From Life Valley, one million LDUs, their language lessons completed, trotted toward their assigned areas. Each was to watch over the safety of ten thousand humans, and they had doubts as to the possibility of doing the job well.

Each platoon of one hundred had with it two Betas with their observation birds and one mind-reading Gamma unit. The birds were important to locate tree houses. All of the recent models had an external spigot that gave out the food that the LDUs ate. They would need to find many of these on the trek ahead.