"Looks like they went by a construction site and picked up a few things," Hoblenz said. Laura looked up to see him towering over her, his own binoculars raised. His face was covered in black grease, a fact Laura noted with a smile. Hoblenz was obviously a creature of habit, because his body glowed brightly with heat.
"Ingenious little bastards," he continued. "Shot straight through a thousand years of B and D to two hundred B.C. That's when the phalanx was rendered obsolete by a variety of technologies which the Model Sevens don't seem to possess." He took his binoculars off his eyes and turned to one of the jeeps. "Hey! Hansen! You don't see any Model Sevens with long bows do ya?"
His men laughed, and Hoblenz returned to his observation of the battle.
"They're saving their torches this time," he said quietly to Laura. "Conserving electricity. They plan to punch on through."
Sharp metal thwacks came from across the flat field, quickly growing to a thunderous noise. The sound was like loud steel hail, which rained down on the shields of the attackers. Laura raised the binoculars and saw the pounding blows administered by the long arms of the Model Sixes. A few shields were ripped out of the Eights' hands, but others were passed to the exterior ranks. The Sixes were toppled onto their sides one after the other. Model Eights trailing the pack then made the kill.
Next up for the advancing phalanx came the Model Sevens.
The graceful spiders danced back and forth to each side, and the Model Eights crashed straight into their ranks. As if on cue the Model Sevens attacked from all directions, inundating the Eights with battering legs.
"Attagirl," Hoblenz muttered, and Laura looked up. Underneath the binoculars he wore a big grin. The Model Sevens' attack was on cue, Laura realized. Gina was the commander of their army.
"Have you been tutoring the computer, Mr. Hoblenz?" Laura asked.
The smile drained from his face, and he glanced down at her with a "caught-in-the-act" look. "I just had a coupla thoughts after the first round. I'd, uh, 'preciate it if you didn't tell Mr. Gray."
"Why? That's why he has you talking to the computer so much, you know. To teach her about the violent side of life. To toughen her up a little — give her the scent of red meat to balance against her interaction with wimpy intellectuals."
Hoblenz growled out a short laugh. "That thought had occurred to me. But it doesn't apply to tonight. He gave me express orders not to intervene in that battle. If the Model Eights break through, I'm to send my men to the harbor and secure boats off the island. He was adamant about not interfering."
The clatter of spider legs falling on shields filled the air. Here and there around the black mass of moving metal a Model Seven was toppled to the ground. But fighting the enemy robots seemed secondary to the determined mass of Model Eights. The phalanx bludgeoned its way toward the computer center, striking straight at the headquarters of the defenders.
"Jesus!" Hoblenz said angrily. "I could bust up that formation with one word!" He was clearly frustrated by Gray's rules of engagement.
Laura imagined he was unaccustomed to the role of bystander.
Laura considered explaining Gray's ideas about natural selection. About the immorality of favoring one creation over another. About the tragedy that went hand in hand with the glory as life sprang from inanimate objects. About life spreading by natural progression to machines in a process not easily impeded by man.
But it would take too long to make him understand. It would take too much effort. He wasn't ready yet.
Laura felt the tingle of an epiphany ripple across her body like bare skin exposed to a chilly breeze. In her mind arose lifeless objects suffused with the vitality of animate beings. Machines that would astound the world with novel thoughts. Infused with some spirit, some life-force, the insensate would come alive. Walk the earth. Gain a voice. And the ideas that will spring from their new perspective and experiences would be unencumbered by the ruts, the baggage, the tired byways of human thought.
She realized that Hoblenz was whispering to her.
"I couldn't help givin' the computer a suggestion or two," he said. "Here we go. Watch this."
Laura turned to see Model Sixes accelerate toward the phalanx. As if in slow-motion she watched them collide, plowing into the Model Eights at high speed.
Hoblenz's men cheered as the loud boom rolled across the field. At the scene of the disaster, robots of every model lay on the ground all around — Laura couldn't tell from which side or how many. What the soldiers celebrated was in fact a desperate act of suicide. Laura wondered where Hightop was, guessing he would be in the middle of the now-disorganized formation. Another wave of Model Sixes maneuvered into position. The whine of their engines announced their acceleration toward the enemy. This time the outer ranks of the phalanx broke.
"Yeah!" Hoblenz yelled. "Scatter, you steel monkeys! You're dead meat now!"
But the Model Eights didn't scatter and flee. They lunged outward and grabbed Model Sevens, pulling the quadrupeds back against their ranks as living shields. With a rending crash the thrashing Sevens were crushed to death, the same fate as befell the valiant Sixes.
The disruption was over, and the phalanx moved on. They left behind the smoking wreckage of their weaker foes.
There was no more cheering from the troops. The Model Eights were the superior species. They were vastly outnumbered, but they lived up to their higher model number. They were more advanced. They were better at protecting their niche, at killing their more primitive cousins.
They were more ruthless than the all-too-human computer, which controlled the downtrodden army of older equipment now in full retreat.
A heavy truck towing a flatbed trailer pulled up to the computer center. Atop the trailer were several large tarpaulins.
"Dr. Aldridge!" Filatov called from the steps. "Mr. Gray wants you! Hurry!" She followed Filatov through the duster into the computer center entrance. "He's in the version 4C," Filatov explained along the way. "He wants you to suit up. Dorothy and Margaret are already in the changing rooms."
Filatov led her on a run through the empty control room toward the corridor leading back to the virtual workstations.
"What does he want us to do?" Laura asked when they stopped at the door to the hallway.
"You're going to fight the robots," Filatov said out of breath. He grabbed her arm and pulled her past the hissing door. "The Model Eights."
"We're going to do what?" Laura said, tearing her arm free.
"Come on!" Filatov shouted. "There isn't much time!" Reluctantly she followed him to the ready room adjoining Gray's most advanced workstation. "You change. I'm going to load the program for Dorothy and Margaret."
Laura stripped in the little room and donned the exoskeleton.
"Are you almost ready?" Filatov asked through the door upon his return.
"Ready for what?" Laura asked as she emerged wearing the tight suit. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to do!"
"When you go in there and I load the program, you step into their world! You can fight them!"
"How? What are you talking about? Do you mean the computer is going to make those Model Eights think some hundred-and-ten-pound human is scurrying around their feet in [garbled]? Do you really think that's going to stop them? They'll squash me like a bug! Is that roof going to come crashing down on me? I would enjoy that experience, too."
"You're taking too much time!" Filatov replied angrily. "It will be too late."
"Answer me! Am I going to get bashed to a bloody pulp inside that thing?"