“I did,” said Gannel. “She doesn’t believe it. She asks why I don’t flee then.”
“Maybe you should.”
Gannel laughed. “Oh, no, Yezhov. We’re partners, but no more than that. I’m not putting myself in your custody.”
“A little more faith on your part would greatly oil our plans, Director.”
“So would divine power. But I don’t see any.”
“Then we’ll have to squeeze her,” said Yezhov.
“Dangerous.”
“Yes, at least until the new conditioning is implemented.”
“True, true,” said Gannel. “But…”
“What troubles you, Director?”
“Do you trust the cybertanks?”
“Of course I don’t trust them.”
“You know what I mean,” said Gannel. “It’s a dangerous expedient using them.”
“Oh, but the mobs fear them so. Frankenstein monsters, they say. Once you’re in charge you must order the Military to turn over all the cybertanks to PHC.”
“Certainly,” said Gannel, who had no intention of doing so. He already feared Yezhov more than any man. Only his lust for the chairmanship kept him working with such a devious schemer.
“Yes, it’s time to squeeze Blanche-Aster,” said Yezhov. “We have to finish this before the mobs become used to running amok. Call her in… an hour.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then we may be wishing that the Highborn really do drop an asteroid.”
18.
After inexplicably failing to gain control of a selected cybertank, Colonel Manteuffel tucked the compucase under his arm and sprinted down the street as if the devil himself chased him. The small officer dove behind an overturned car. Behind him, rounding the heavy building’s corner where he’d just been, clanked the 100-ton cybertank he’d failed to control. Bricks and twisted girders exploded out of the building’s corner. The edge of the metal monster simply shouldered through, heavy treads crunching over the debris. The 100-ton cybertank then wheeled in its uniquely ponderous way toward Manteuffel
Manteuffel crawled madly, tearing and scuffing his black tanker’s uniform.
Two bionic men lunged from behind another building. They grabbed the Colonel by the arms and pulled him behind their corner. At the same instant, one of the cybertank’s six warfare pods aimed its cannon. A deafening roar issued. The overturned car exploded. Explosive pellets ricocheted off the street, as two antipersonnel pods chugged a thousand rounds.
The bionic men didn’t hesitate. They ran. One of them threw the small Manteuffel unceremoniously over his shoulder. Gears and bionic parts whined as they pumped their legs like pistons. Manteuffel clenched his teeth. The jar of the bionic man’s shoulder thrust against his gut threatened to tear Manteuffel’s stomach muscles loose. Thankfully, however, the heavy, clanking sound of the cybertank receded. They fled several blocks, zigzagging through the city, until they reached where General Hawthorne waited with the bulk of the commandos.
Dumped onto his feet, Colonel Manteuffel leaned against a nearby wall. His pale face winced horribly. When he straightened, it felt as if a knife slashed through his gut. A MI operative thrust something in his face. Oh. Manteuffel nodded, and with a trembling hand, he accepted a bottle of medication.
“Well?” asked Hawthorne. “What happened?”
They stood in a brick-laid plaza, open-air shops surrounding them. Overhead the level’s sunlamps shone at ‘daytime’ brightness.
Manteuffel sipped the soothing liquid.
“If you could spare us a moment, Colonel.”
“It’s like we thought,” Manteuffel said between gasps. “The cybertanks have been tampered with.”
“Yes,” said Hawthorne, “I can see that. But tampered how? You told me before that if anyone tried to breach their brain-case that it would detonate.”
Manteuffel grimaced. “Just like the Air Marshal.”
“Now isn’t the time to get sentimental, Colonel.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Hawthorne waved it aside. He paced as his bionic commandos waited in their teams. They were on the ninth level, very near the Directorate Building and Madam Blanche-Aster’s residence. Unfortunately, cybertanks kept anyone from approaching too closely.
“How did PHC sabotage the CT codes?” asked Hawthorne.
“I’m not sure they did,” Manteuffel said.
“But you just said the cybertanks have been tampered with.”
“Yes, but maybe not in the manner we first envisioned it.”
“Explain.”
“The cybertanks are human.”
Hawthorne raised his eyebrows.
Manteuffel pushed himself off the wall and lowered his voice. “Are the bionic warriors human?”
“Of course they are.”
“But they’re part machine.”
Hawthorne frowned before nodding. “You’re saying that the cybertanks are part machine, but also partly human?”
“Entirely machine,” Manteuffel said, “except for the brain.”
“But not a real brain,” said Hawthorne. “The brain tissue is from various donors and set in programming gel.”
“Don’t be deceived, General. Each cybertank quickly gains its own personality. They begin to think of themselves as human.”
“Oh very well, Colonel. Now get to the point.”
“I think PHC convinced the cybertanks to go along with whatever it is they’re planning.”
“They’re part of the coup?” asked Hawthorne.
“No. Not that far in. The Mark 2042 I spoke with believes that he’s protecting the government.”
“You spoke to him?” said Hawthorne. “Then why didn’t the override codes work?”
“I think we’ll find that a new input plug was inserted.”
“Is that possible?”
“The fact that the override codes don’t work seems to prove it.”
Hawthorne paced. “What if we yanked the new input plug?”
Manteuffel nodded, and then he winced because the head motion made his stomach rip with pain. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Maybe pulling this new plug would allow us to use the CT codes. But how would we get in close enough to pull it?”
“You’re the expert!” shouted Hawthorne. He frowned as bionic men turned toward him. “Sorry, Colonel. But that’s your area of expertise. Don’t you know of a way?”
Manteuffel sipped from the medical bottle. He considered his torn stomach muscles. Then he studied the bionic men. Soon he said, “Yes, I think there is a way.”
19.
The Mark 2042 Cybertank prowled the area of the subterfuge attack. He seethed with rage, but not enough so that he disobeyed orders and left the perimeter given him to guard. In the background rose the monumental Directorate Building. Around it fanned broad streets, plazas, fountains and squat, pentagonal government buildings.
The Mark 2042 exalted in his might and ability to destroy. In all human history, no warrior could do what he did. He was 100 tons of lethality, 20 meters by 12 by 5. Heavy tracks and a Zeitzler 5000 Electromagnetic Engine provided him motive power. He loved the sound of his clanking tracks as he chased the primitive bio-beasts. He had six interchangeable weapons pods, giving him more firepower and flexibility than any warrior ever born or made. To protect him from missiles and cannon shells he had “beehive” flechette launchers, exploding shrapnel that knocked them down before they could strike. The forty beehives also made excellent antipersonnel systems. Earlier this week he’d exploded one of them into a crowd, killing five hundred at a single blow. How the others had fled after that! He’d recorded it, and replayed the video whenever he was bored. That’s how he knew it was 500. Well, precisely 489 dead and wounded. He’d shot the wounded one at a time or smeared them into the pavement with his treads.
On open terrain, his great weight allowed him to fire his magnetic force cannons and heavy lasers even when he moved at top speed. The 100 tons and uncanny shock systems provided the needed stability. And to finish his uniqueness and near invulnerability was his covering of 260mm-thick composite armor.