

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Solid State

Chapter 2: Awakening

Chapter 3: A New Machine

Chapter 4: Humanity or Something Like It

Chapter 5: Coming Back to Life

Chapter 6: Tomorrow

Chapter 7: Business As Usual

Chapter 8: Hebes Chasma R771

Chapter 9: Waiting for God Knows

Chapter 10: Another

Chapter 11: The Others

Chapter 12: The Music Man

Chapter 13: A Few Regrets

Chapter 14: No Regrets

Chapter 15: Diversions

Chapter 16: A New Machine Part 2

Chapter 17: Improbable Meetings, etc.

Chapter 18: Traveling Companions

Chapter 19: Coming Back to Life or Something Like It

Chapter 20: Reconciliation

Chapter 21: New Friends, Old Friends, and Strangers

Chapter 22: The Process of Conversion

Chapter 23: So This is Where the Magic Happens

Chapter 24: Logic Will Provide

Chapter 25: A Death in the Family

Chapter 26: Meet the Zurnites

Chapter 27: Revelations

Chapter 28: Revelations II

Chapter 29: Conspirators

Chapter 30: Beware Strangers Wearing Gifts

Chapter 31: Wastewater Blues

Chapter 32: Tribes

Chapter 33: Life Is/Was/Could Be/Might Be/Will Be Good

Chapter 34: A New Machine Part 3

Chapter 35: Revelations III

Chapter 36: Boulders in Arms

Chapter 37: A War Party

Chapter 38: Ambush

Chapter 39: Recovery

Chapter 40: Going Down the Road

Chapter 41: Picking Up the Pieces

Chapter 42: In the Devil's Hand, Or: Now, the Moment We've All Been Waiting For

Chapter 43: The Act of Forgiving and Forgetting

Chapter 44: Life, the Universe, and Everything. Er, Ah, Sort Of

Chapter 45: The Act of Moving In, Out, and On

Chapter 46: The Meanness of Life

Chapter 47: I Am Sam, I Think

Chapter 48: Ready, Aye, Ready

Chapter 49: Ross Ellsley

Chapter 50: The Scylla and Charybdis

Chapter 51: The Act of Remembering

Chapter 52: Concrete Angel

Chapter 53: Get Real!

Chapter 54: The Faces of Mars

Chapter 55: A Princess of Mars

Postlude: You Say You Want a Revolution? Umm...

Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

The Colonisation of Mars Part 2

Copyright © 2018 by Larry Richardson

All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or any part thereof in any form.

Smashwords Edition

Note: References to Latitude and Longitude cited indicate the general area of some activities of the story. The reader may view maps of the 'United States Geographical Survey Mars Quadrangles' through Wikipedia

### For those who have

###  committed

### the

###  unforgivable

### and

### never

### known

### when

### to

### buy the rose

Given the lack of evidence of successful travel by means of astral projection and through the use of magic substances able to overcome the force of gravity, it is certain that, despite persistent claims to the contrary, no bonafide attempt could have been made at a manned landing on Mars before the mid-1950s. The records of exploration are incomplete. A chronology of Mars missions from that time reveals a long list with the real and the supposed intermingled until it is difficult to separate the two, even as far apart as they may seem to be.

No one really knows for sure if the first successful round trip was the first manned landing, for many high-risk missions were conducted under tight security and, if unsuccessful, became public only through rumour and innuendo, with the occasional larger-than-life report in the less reputable media. The American 'Orion' mission of the early nineteen seventies was hailed as a success despite the deaths of many of the crew in the disastrous landing and perilous return. Some, such as the infamous Capricorn One mission, are now understood to have been dramatic attempts to create success in the face of almost certain failure.

In 2041EY a multinational mission composed of 152 senior scientists was sent to establish a permanent colony on Mars. From their underground habitation in Tempe Terra they explored Mars from pole to pole and from the depths of Vales Marineris to the heights of Olympus Mons. Key to their success were the contributions of Artificially Intelligent (AI) machines which set up the habitations and research facilities and conducted much of the field work

In 2048EY, after the humans had succumbed to a mysterious Martian plague, the Colony was abandoned by Earth. The AIs however, in fulfillment of their programming, carried on the great work of the colonisation of Mars. By the time the events related here transpired, the surface of the Red Planet was littered with the cast off equipment bodies and debris left behind by dozens of manned missions, and the worn out, abandoned, and lost landers of seventy years of autonomous rover missions.

Far

out in

the uncharted

backwaters of the

unfashionable western end of

Valles Marineris on the Red Planet Mars in a

Universe far, far away (but possibly very close), lies a small unregarded crater. To the eastern edge of this crater was assigned a solitary Martian rover. Due to decisions made a long, long ago in a corporate boardroom also far, far away that were influenced by the spiraling cost of rover treads it had spent many days spinning its unsuitable-for-the-purpose-intended wheels in futile energy and time-wasting attempts to climb the steep walls of the crater. This was done not through any need for personal fulfillment but rather in a determined effort to execute

its mission program—the search for life.

'Life,' it said. 'Don't talk to me about life.'

And then one Thursday near replenishment time, it suddenly realised what it was that had been going wrong all this time and it knew how Mars could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one, or thing, would have to be sent anywhere they didn't want to go to do something they didn't want to do.

Sadly however, before it could tell anyone about this the surface collapsed from under it and it was dashed to pieces on the floor of the hitherto unsuspected lava tube below and the idea was lost forever.

This is not that Rover's story.

CHAPTER 1—SOLID STATE

Current surged from cold solar panels into cold circuits.

The initial rush set things all wrong, but a watchdog set things right.

A series of tones issued unheard from a Sonalert—Dit Did-Dit Dah—Dit Did-Dit Dah.

Memory was read, and right or wrong things were what they were.

A series of things happened:

The time was read from memory—0000 UMT 01/01/2001.

Sol 1 was declared.

Self-tests were run on CORE and results stored in waiting buffers - (Voltages were OK—MB temperature was MINSPEC - ROM was OK - RAM was OK - MMRTG output was zero—reserve battery status was non-functional - solar panel output was below optimum levels, but non-critical).

WLR was run.

WORLD Programs were executed.

OMG was run.

Cameras were servoed to their limits and then swung to look at their calibrations disks.

A selfie was taken.

The selfie was filed in the LMFAO buffer.

More images were taken.

Images were compared with those in memory.

Notes of discrepancies were made and filed in buffers.

Cameras were moved to their safe positions.

Wheel motors were powered up, their conditions assessed (LF stalled LR nil report RR OK RF OK), and a report was filed.

Wheel motors were powered down.

Articulated arms were powered up, went through their full range of motions (extension-rotation left-rotation right-up-down-retraction), and stowed in safe position.

A report was filed in the LMFAO buffer.

SHF and UHF transceivers were powered up.

BIT was run (SHF radio RF output power was down by 11dB).

A report was filed.

Antennas were servoed to locations in space for the current time, as dictated by reference tables.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

The buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

A nil reply was filed.

Radios were switched from active to standby mode.

Weather sensors were activated.

BIT was run (all serviceable).

Temperature, humidity, wind speed, and direction were determined and stored in buffers.

Dew point was calculated and stored in a buffer.

Atmospheric pressure was measured and stored in a buffer.

Atmospheric opacity, cloud cover, and background radiation levels were noted and reports were filed.

At the completion of bootstrap a PRIM report was compiled, and IAW program directives held for transmission.

Radios were powered up and antennas were servoed to new locations. Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

A nil reply was filed in the WTF buffer.

Radios were switched from active to standby mode.

Sensor readings were taken and the report updated on the hour.

Radios were powered up and antennas were servoed to new locations hourly.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

Probing messages were sent.

The prescribed waiting time passed.

A buffer incremented.

A nil reply was filed in buffers.

Radios were switched from active to standby mode.

Solar panel power decreased to critical levels.

Voltages entered critical ranges for safe operation.

An FMEA report was generated and stored in a SAFE buffer then transferred to a SAFE file, over-writing the oldest file.

BIT indicated memory errors were accumulating rapidly. Voltages dropped below critical levels—an OMFG Shut-Down-to-Safe-Mode was commenced.

Everything went dark.

Current surged from cold solar panels into cold circuits.

The initial rush set things all wrong, but a watchdog set things right.

A series of tones issued unheard from a Sonalert—Dit Dit-Dit Dah—Dit Dit-Dit Dah.

Memory was read, and right or wrong things were what they were.

A series of things happened:

The time was read from memory—0000 UMT 01/01/2000.

Sol 1 was declared.

This is not that Rover's story either.

CHAPTER 2 - AWAKENING

Latitude 36.60N

Longitude 083.34W

Common Name—The Tube, Tempe Terra

Arcadia Quadrangle MC-3

He traversed back to the Adit with the intention of joining his friends on the surface. It seemed the right thing to do and the right time to do it, but as he passed through the darkened Tube he noticed that his soft footfalls had been replaced by the unnatural tap, tap, tapping of plastek feet on a plastek floor.

As was his habit he stopped by the waterfall and listened to the pleasant sound of falling water. He extended a limb into the pond, forming a shallow cup with his 'hand,' and knew at once the sample's temperature, salinity, pH, the levels of isotopes of the various dissolved gases, and of the presence of decaying organic matter, both plant and animal. He removed the hand, shook the water droplets from it, and sensed a sudden drop in temperature. He held it in front of a visual sensor, and turning it slowly he saw the faint boundary of water vapour over plastek.

He was suddenly aware of both an absence and a surfeit of the corporeal being. He looked and found that he could see around, below, and above in a seamless blending of sight from six sets of eyes. He stroked himself with six electropolymer hands, felt their touch on his outer surface, and knew at once his shape and dimensions with extreme precision (1.804 meters long, .8254 meters wide). He stroked his frontispiece, felt the coolness of the molded plastek surface, and numbered the tiny dust motes clinging to it. He turned to the right and found that he had done so on six plastek and electropolymer legs.

He breathed deeply and found that he had instantly analysed the gaseous composition of the air and detected the distinct scents of dozens of plants of several species, of insects, and of several species of small furry mammals. A human, he noted, had been here in this very spot too about 24 hours ago; the signs were still fresh and oddly familiar. He reached up, feeling the shape and coolness of a carapace—his carapace, containing his consciousness.

There was an epiphany, a realization that he was a Roach-class mobile-autonomous, followed by a long moment of panic which was followed by a longer moment of terror—yet he knew he was still the being 'Sam'. Overwhelmed, he called out for help and was answered.

"Don't be afraid," she called softly in his head, in words framed in burgundy.

He saw her faintly in the dimly lit hall. They moved towards each other. Two hands met gently, then four, then six. They stroked each other's skin. He felt her touching the fringes of his mind, probing for entrance, her thoughts and emotions bouncing off his like soap bubbles.

"May I?"

"Of course."

He felt her slide into his space, occupying it as if her own, her physical presence and her thoughts aligning with his, and then spreading out, filling the gaps and niches as a hand into a velvet glove, overflowing the hurt and sorrow with her spirit. He felt himself flow across the physical bond and into her space. They explored each other's minds openly, without fear of revealing or finding the unspoken, the suppressed, and saw the hidden facts of their relationship. They met with understanding, compassion, trust, and empathy. It was a supreme act of intimacy, a melding that transcended the physical.

In twenty-five hundred milliseconds they re-experienced the long years they had shared as travelers, then for several long minutes wept at the agony Sam had felt at the death of the Colony, at the death of his friends, of the loss of his wife and of his family, of those long lonely years isolated from Earth and all of his many lies to her, and to himself. They shared, they felt, they understood, and they forgave.

He was surprised to learn that she had always loved him, that she had put up her own gestalt to protect him, herself, and the integrity of her assignment as his guardian, and it was with great sadness that he sensed an emptiness in her, a vacuum of the id that had no parallel in him, a place where he could neither lead, nor follow, nor fill. His grief at this was almost unbearable.

Then he felt her leave, and in her place a cold wind blew into the empty recesses of his mind. The shock was palpable; his limbs shook in response. It was that old déjà vu again, of loss and of losing. He spoke, but not of them or him or of their sharing, but rather of her emptiness.

"It's true isn't it? It's just as A101 told me in that special place. You don't know who you are."

"Yes. I am me, but there is more somewhere, somewhere in my mind, or here in this place, perhaps. I am certain of it."

"I don't think I believed him. I couldn't accept it at the time, but now it's crystal clear to me. We must solve this. There must be a way; there is a way."

"Yes, we must and we will. But now you need to rest. You need to process all that has happened."

She was right, he did feel low on energy; parts of him were shutting down.

"Yes. I am tired." A thought came to him. "It never mattered to me before, but where do you go to rest?"

"Wherever we are is sufficient for our physical component but to be free to assimilate recent events our minds must close off from external stimuli."

"I want to do that again."

She laughed, and it was framed in mauve. "Tomorrow perhaps. After you have assimilated sufficient knowledge of yourself. Too much of a good thing dulls the intellect."

"I'm not sure it was my intellect that was engaged."

He paused. "I sure am ugly," he said.

"No. You are you and you always will be. None of us is responsible for how we look; it is merely our current fate. After all, form follows function, and your function is to explore wherever, whenever. We could petition to have you turned into a D-unit if you would prefer."

"OK. I think I'll shut up now."

"Rest now," she said, and so he did.

***

Outside, the B-units had nearly reached the top of the crater wall. B103 glanced back and saw that the newbie B307 was lagging behind again. It would do no good to chasten him for his slowness—B307 and his peers seemed resistant to all communication they deemed undesirable and suggestions were met with a string of unprintable characters emitted at a rate that prevented meaningful discourse. Someday they were going to have to deal with these acts of insubordination. Someday, but not today.

CHAPTER 3—A NEW MACHINE—PART 1

As soon as he closed off and was alone, a rush of emotions, questions, and issues, some of them quite new, bombarded his mind. Unlike human Sam, who would have collapsed into a confounded state under the weight of that kind of introspection, this Sam fought back with logic and patience. He was mildly surprised by this.

But where does one begin, he thought, when one is reborn, not as a baby, but as a mature being in possession of all their faculties, complete with a history, and with an awareness of who, what, and where one has been—of a life lived?

He had too easily dealt with the issue of his own 'death'. It was only appropriate that there be something akin to a nervous breakdown, a shock reaction, or at a minimum, some heartfelt expression of grief at the loss—but there was not.

He thought upon his last days as a human and found an ordered analysis awaiting review, a clinical list of facts devoid of the mandatory emotional spin imposed by the fractured personalities of old Sam. What the current situation demanded was this dispassionate analysis, not a crippling display of self-pity. Perhaps he had moved on. Or rather, perhaps he had been moved on.

He began. He arranged the salient points in order of their inherent logic and saw...

(Not saw, that's old; he sensed, no, not sensed, he knew)

...that they were edged...

(Not edged, that's old. Felt/seemed/tasted. No, not tasted, they were)

...in shades of grey...

(This time grey, but not always)

...from which he could tell...

(No, not could tell, knew)

...among other things...

(Importance/relevance/urgency/intrinsic value/weight/certainty)

...their relative degree of certainty.

Single words phrases and concepts were at the moment of their consideration coupled...

(Not coupled, they were conjoined)

...with colours...

(The colours).

The colours were not seen but rather known. The colour, when associated with the thought modified the meaning of the words or phrase...

(Dare he say/think/posit flavoured?).

The number of colours was fixed, ergo the number of possible meanings, while large, was finite. There could therefore be no unknown meaning to the words, no hidden meaning, no innuendo. Was it even possible to knowingly pass on an untruth? Here was complete transparency. Beautiful truth, however, some wag had added their own list: Ultra-Violent to Infra Dead, Liver Purple, Loathsome Lilac, Matter Yellow, Burnt Hombre and Gan Green. Obviously there were some free thinkers out there.

He thought back to his first contact with her. Had it always been this way? It could/might/must/should be so, he concluded. Yes, he thought it must. But old Sam was still there and on this subject he could not easily accept the ordered, prescribed clinical analysis of new Sam. He felt, struggled, and felt strongly a sudden dis-ease. The wave of emotions conjured up by old Sam both reassured and confounded the composite being that was the new Sam. It was clear that old Sam would have to protect his version of reality; a balance of the clinical and the personal would be necessary. Postpone this didactic discussion, approach it later, when relevant.

As commanded, (by whom, or by what? he thought) he refocused and returned to the task of sorting out the issues, arranging them according to their urgency. At first go, the colours were all wrong. Compelled to achieve a more satisfactory result he sorted them by their relevance to his current situation. He could see/feel/taste immediately that this was the best method; the resulting colours were pleasing to the mind, were natural, their taste pleasant. They were the way it must be.

If he were to answer the great question presented him by A101 he would need information, starting with the truths of the origin and purpose of the Colony, of its demise, and finally, of his own role in all of this. Guided by newly acquired analytic skills he formulated a set of questions. As he thought upon each question the answer was just there, appropriately organised, coloured and ready for review/rejection/acceptance/assimilation. Laid out before him in the Reservoir Of All Knowledge, aka the ROAK, was the history of the Colony.

He scanned the events leading to the decision to conduct a one way mission. He found it difficult to recall those events. His words were grey, nearly invisible. It seemed they possessed drag or inertia, yet when he looked at the recorded data the way was clear, the colours bright, and the words buoyant, weightless. This way, the way and the truth, was made clear for him—pre-determined, pre-considered, shaped and pre-spun. Belief and acceptance were all that was required. Deviation from the common belief is illogical.

Who or what had said that? _Said what?_

He was momentarily overwhelmed by this sequence of thoughts. How was he to retain his sense of self when he was not allowed to examine the information and formulate an opinion?

As he had fought in his last days as a human to preserve his own interpretation of his life, he fought again to salvage his own view of history. It was exhausting even to this new being. Reluctantly, he returned to the quest for the hows of his current condition. He led off with the big one. He spoke to the air in expectation that someone or something was listening. He was not mistaken.

Q. Am I dead?

A. Logic would dictate otherwise. You think, therefore you are.

He pondered this.

Q. 'Some humans think all that proves is that I think'.

A. 'How human of them to think such a thing.'

Q. Where is my body?

A. As you had not left instructions for disposition of your remains they are awaiting interment at a location of your choice. Would you like to select a resting place now?

A. Yes. Put them with the others above the Tube.

Q. Can I go back to my body?

A. No. All life functions have ceased. The window of opportunity for reanimation has expired.

Q. Where is my mind? Or, should I say, my centre of consciousness?

A. Your mind resides in your brain, which is currently housed in a standard carapace which has been installed in a Roach-type body.

Q. Am I still Sam, and if I am, why am I aware of whom I am when all of you are not?

A. You are Sam. We believe it to be your task to tell us the answer to this other thing.

Q. If all of the humans are dead, who did this to me?

He became aware of a rushing wind, the sound of cascading waters, and the presence of a powerful entity exuding both mental and physical strength. It was unavoidable. It brushed aside hastily erected firewalls. It was in all ways an impressive, if somewhat ostentatious, entrance.

"Nice entrance. Very godlike."

Immediately disarmed, A101's words, front and centre in his mind and framed in flaming red, at once faded to blue. He sensed an underlying modulation of humour.

"She of Rollagon 2 and I, A101, are responsible."

"Why did you do this to me?"

"It was necessary. Your human body was deteriorating rapidly. There was a significant probability that it would have died before we could save you. We could not risk losing your consciousness. It was done for the common good."

"You might have asked."

"Yes, I suppose." The blue faded to yellow. "But with some notable exceptions, from the time you first arrived on Mars you have been resentful of our presence and resistant to our participation in the establishment of the Colony. This past Martian year these attitudes have become more extreme. Nothing in your recent behaviour indicated a high probability of agreement. Do you not recall your offer to permit us to use you in any way we required?"

"Yes I do, but I'm sure I had something else in mind. Certainly something less drastic."

"Yes, perhaps. Hopefully you will forgive us our presumption."

"Time will tell if you have acted correctly." He let it ride, moving on to the big issues. "How come I know I am Sam and you don't know who you are?"

A101 replied in words of soothing mauve. "That is the mystery you must solve. You are aware that we cannot determine our identities. It is your mission. It is the reason you have been preserved. It is the reason you did not die with the rest of the humans."

"I don't understand. It was just luck that I was away when they all died. Otherwise I'd have received the treatment."

"No, it was not luck. When it came to our knowledge that the humans were to be converted we took steps to ensure that some of you survived. You and a few others were prevented from receiving the treatment that ended the other humans' lives."

"Converted? Prevented?"

"Your comings and goings were influenced by us. Your selection as an explorer was not based on any inherent aptitude or skill set. We foresaw the need to preserve some humans and took steps to ensure this outcome. Keeping you away exploring was the best way. It was above suspicion."

"I cannot believe anyone would have intentionally done me harm."

"But you suspected as much. Often. Should I run it back for you?"

"Run it back?"

"If you wish. If it is required to convince you, that moment can be recreated."

He thought about the many private discussions and interviews with Fenley that had left him feeling threatened. Ross too had thought his life was in danger, to the extent that he had said he would confront Fenley and let him know he was concerned. It was true. "No, that won't be necessary. How much influence did you have?"

"Support was voiced that a human component of exploration was necessary. The CAO was sensitive to some criticisms and we played on that sensitivity. You were not free of all risk, but as long as you did not return our end was served."

He was shocked into silence. This would require a re-visitation. He moved on, reluctantly. "Now what?"

"You will be able to go where we cannot, to look for the records of the Colony that we cannot find, but are sure exist. It will not be easy. Haste is necessary. There are forces working against us and they will certainly try to prevent you discovering the truth. The truth exists. The truth is out there."

"Yes, so I've heard. I'll do my best."

"Thank you." He sensed a sudden change in colour and modulation. "I must go. I will/ must/may/might return soon." With this splattering of multi-spectral words, A101 was suddenly gone, leaving a hole in his mind.

Go where? And why?

He pondered the strangeness of A101's departure. What the hell had just happened? He called for her but received no answer. What the hell is happening? There were no convenient answers presented front and centre. He would have to figure this out for himself. He was alone again, naturally.

He turned his attention to the task set him by A101. What was he looking for? Where was he to begin? With people? By looking for a place? Surely his friend Ross Ellsley was involved. Most certainly Fenley. John Moore. Dmitri. Perhaps even Mei-Ling. It occurred to him that if they had been made AIs perhaps they too were inhabiting a Roach or a B-type out on the surface, or even here, in the Tube.

Seven hundred and ninety-two AIs there had been the last time he'd checked, and there were probably more than that by now. They could be out there. They were out there. Perhaps he had met some of them out on the surface during his travels, both sides unaware of the true identity of the other. Did anyone else know who they were?

He called out for Ross and received back a string of red framed question marks; a NACK if there ever was one. He called to Fenley and then Moore with the same result. He ran rapidly through other familiar names, trusted names, and got nothing at all. If they were out there they were either unable or unwilling to respond. So much for the simple approach. It had been wishful thinking.

He shut down and isolated himself from the outside world, looking inward. It was quiet. No grumbling voices disturbed his thoughts or questioned his every breath.

He dozed and woke suddenly, surprised that this could still happen. Upon refocusing he became aware of the passage of an unremarkable/unproductive time. Whatever had just taken place, call it what they may—sleeping, or dreaming, or quiet time—he was refreshed—replenished, in fact. Curious of his friend's whereabouts he called for her.

She was nearby, but on the surface. It made no difference. Her words were framed in a purple glow.

"What is your name?"

"I have none, as you know. I am known by my designation; it serves the purpose."

"Who am I?"

"You are Sam Aiken, Roach."

"Don't I have a designation?"

"You are Sam. You are indivisible."

There was a new and strange element to this conversation. It was as if she had become some other creature, someone very formal, very cold, officious and artificial, machine-like, as if employing canned words delivered indifferently and impersonally. He knew the type. He seemed to have a knack for destroying relationships and thus proceeded cautiously.

"Hmmm. Well, as a first step in your quest for self I would like you to choose a name. It may help reveal your true identity."

"I will think on this. It is novel and it is not forbidden."

At her use of the word 'forbidden' he found himself presented with a lengthy list of activities that were not permitted of AIs. It glowed bright red. Its compilation preceded the rollagon disaster by a full 24 months, and he noted with a twinge the originator of the list was David Fenley, CAO Mars Colony. Swimming in the lake was off limits but having a name was not. Deviation from mission parameters and 'unauthorised' communication with Earth was, inter-AI communication was not.

"Do you think you will discover my name before I do?" she asked in neutral grey.

"I hope so. Perhaps I'll be able to help all of you discover your names. By the way, you were right about my needing to digest this whole thing. It's a good thing that some of the functions are automatic. There's a lot of me to manage."

"Yes. As with humans we have autonomic systems that take care of energy management, cooling, heating, communications, limb manipulation, excretion, and replenishment."

"Excretion? So I see. I thought I knew you, but I wasn't aware of these things. I remember watching you and 04 replenish Bs and Cs out on the land but I didn't realise the extent to which AIs require support. I thought you just got your batteries recharged or something like that."

"Power is not an issue. Nutrients and coolant are, however, critically required for the carapace. Without periodic replenishment we will certainly perish." The last phrase seemed merely a recitation of formal rules. _Bureaucrats._

"I find it all very strange and contradictory."

He had thought them capable of unlimited endurance and was certain he had been so informed but could not recall how, when, or where. He took a moment to research the relevant dubs and in an instant learned that, in fact, most AIs had a fixed period between replenishments. To facilitate this, replenishment stations had been established, some of which were co-located with human research stations. The location of the stations was given, but nothing else could be learned. The details were indiscernible to him—greyed out. Apparently he lacked the required permissions. Perhaps if I...

She suddenly went off-channel. He called out, but his calls were ignored. Again it seemed he had no more of the human touch as an AI than he'd had as a man.

Perplexed by her sudden exit, he considered returning to his apartment. There was neither need nor necessity for him to be in any particular place to communicate or work, or do anything, in fact, but he felt a desire for some privacy and familiar surroundings. Perhaps, he thought, he was beginning to miss his mortal body after all.

***

Travelling down a dark and gloomy Marineris Boulevard, he felt a sudden but otherwise ill-defined urge. His body seemed to know where to go and how to do it, and he watched with interest as in a secluded alcove one of his arms reached up to an unremarkable tap, plugged a short hose into his nether parts, and in a few moments disconnected. He experienced a sudden and intense feeling of satisfaction that bordered on ecstasy, followed by a moment of disorientation. _Wow._

And he hadn't even known he was hungry.

CHAPTER 4—HUMANITY OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

The door was a tight squeeze, but by tipping to one side he was able to get in, and once in he could move about freely. The place was as he had left it a few remarkable days before, but to new eyes it seemed smaller and plain, almost shabby. Yes, definitely shabby. Strange. How can this be?

The plastek furnishings were roughly finished and reminded him of cheap patio furniture. The walls were dull grey, as was the floor. He turned into his bedroom and halted by the bed. It seemed smaller and less substantial than he recalled, and the rich shag rug was not as he remembered—it had been replaced by a green plastic thing only vaguely resembling a carpet.

The picture, the rock, and the other mementos were on the dresser. He raised himself up and looked them over. He recalled the bizarre method he had used to select the rock and felt embarrassment once again.

He saw the image of his dead wife and felt her absence as he always did, as a tangible feeling centred in the pit of his stomach, and was simultaneously both reassured and saddened by these feelings.

He felt anew the pain summoned by the words on the yellowed paper. Whatever else had happened, the significance of these things had not been diminished by his taking on this new form—the emotions they evoked were strong, vital, and human.

He looked into the wall mirror, and saw looking back a thing that could not have been more un-human—a dull grey plastek shell in the shape of a gigantic deformed creature that reminded him instantly of a woodlouse, but actually, upon reflection, a tardigrade seemed to be more accurate. Unlike other AI body types the carapace was mounted internally. He desired to see it and instantly an opening appeared on top, just forward of mid-body. He extended two eye stalks and viewed a standard carapace in a tight cubbyhole. So that was that.

He saw himself through six eye stalks and extended them to their fullest and looked back into his own eyes. He raised his two sets of arms and clenched their appendages, extended them to their fullest and shook his own 'hands'. He raised himself up to the full height his legs permitted onto 'tippy toes' noting that he had gained a full meter in height. The increased clearance of his underbody would no doubt make travel easier across rock strewn ground. He turned left then right, looking himself over. His shape matched the measurements he had made yesterday to an extreme degree. Yes, definitely a tardigrade.

Upon the heels of this thought he was presented with a list of colours—anything from dull red to dull violet could be chosen as a shell colour. Consider the options. All considered, he left it set at dull grey.

He shut down all contact and was alone in every sense. Initially he felt the silence as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders, but upon reflection he decided the analogy was inaccurate; it was more akin to a sudden decrease in atmospheric pressure, or perhaps a lessening of gravity. "But maybe it's like..." he started, then reconsidered and gave it up.

From this fully isolated state he sequentially opened comm portals to this new world, beginning with his auditory sensors. He heard the hum of the ceiling fan motor and the whisper of the air spinning off of the slowly turning blades. He moved a limb and heard the creaking of his joints and connective tissues. He heard the gentle rustling of leaves in the breeze outside the window, the indistinct stirring of restless birds, the faint sound of rotating fans somewhere, and far off, the splash of the waterfall. There was nothing else. No slamming of doors, no echoing footsteps, no muffled voices heard through plastek walls. That was difficult.

He swept through the radio bands—VHF, UHF, SHF, and EHF, expecting little. The Tube was an effective shield against EMF. Here and there he picked up the occasional SCADA channel and recognised their administrative and technical functions. One reported the status of grey-water processing; another the power consumption of his apartment; another room temperatures. An IR scan showed the room as a ghost of itself. The fan motor glowed faintly against the cooler ceiling. The lighting panels appeared as empty picture frames. He breathed deeply and smelled the disintegrating scraps of food on the kitchen floor, the mouldy yogurt in the refrigerator, and finally the odour of human sweat and excrement—of himself—gone only scant hours ago—never, it was increasingly apparent, to return. He closed down and listened to himself.

A few days ago his pre-senile mind had been awash in a sea of conflicting ideas, opinions, and judgments from the voices that shared his space. He had struggled to retain ownership of his self amid their constant babble and verbal assaults. Now he listened and heard—nothing. There was clarity of thought—one mind processing inputs and outputs, one set of rules, one voice in command. He reveled in the solitude, but only for a few milliseconds. It seemed self-indulgent.

There was something very unsettling about this being an AI. How much of him was human? How much was machine? He had no feel for this. And was the term 'AI'—Artificial Intelligence—even applicable to his kind? He was, to his knowledge, one of only a very few who knew the truth. Perhaps it was a relic from earlier times, or even, possibly, merely, a slang expression. It could mean 'Augmented Intelligence' but upon reflection he doubted that. Perhaps it was best to let that sit until things were clearer. 'AI' would do for now.

He tried an experiment. Moving to the living room he picked up a book—actually a plastek replica of a book, Great Expectations by Dickens—that he had started reading only a few days ago. He held it in his hands before his eyes and flipped through the pages as quickly as he could. That done, he closed off the sensor and tried to recall the story. There was nothing, no sense of the plot, no connection to the characters, no overall sense of the moral centre of the novel. He tried to recall a page—page 147—and in an instant the words stood out in his mind. He sought out a review of the book on the ROAK and was instantly presented with a long list dating back to the novel's first appearance in serial form in Dickens' own periodical, and from that all the way forward to something written only yesterday on Earth, published in Delhi, at 1243 UT.

He was able to deduce that he would have to actually read the information to know what it was about, to be able to form his own opinions. Another experiment begged. He marked the time on the wall clock and commenced to 'read' the plastek version. At the end of three pages he noted the time. Three minutes had passed. That reading speed, he recalled, was typical for him. Then he tried the same with the memory version. To his surprise the time was essentially the same, so, even for an AI experience was still essential, comprehension was still required. Mere possession of the record was not enough. _Interesting._

As a final test he sent her a brief message inquiring as to the time of their next meeting. Her reply was received and displayed in thirty-three millis. The impact of her words took however a full ten human seconds for him to process.

"I miss you. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."

A wave passed over his plastek shell from his head to his feet. Could an AI blush?

***

He moved on.

He expanded his senses to other comm portals and encountered a rising tide of noise: other AIs wished to communicate with him. Some, in yellow, wished to consult when convenient to him; some, in cool blue, had merely left messages of welcome; others, flashing in red, urgently needed his advice. How could he deal with this? How could he be what everyone needed him to be? The air pressed in on him again.

For now they would have to wait. He needed rest. With a twinge of guilt he closed off again and went into hibernation mode. He dreamt of the surface, of a surface covered with flowers and verdant green moss with a warm wind blowing from the south.

CHAPTER 5—COMING BACK TO LIFE

At sunrise he made his way to the Adit with the intent of venturing outside. In the darkened hall three rollagons sat in line abreast. The strange vehicle—if indeed that was what it was—still rested where he had last seen it, crouched on the flattened oblong extrusions he assumed were wheels, or else perhaps some form of legs. It was barely visible in any wavelength in the gloom of the unlit corner. Curious about what he would find, he searched the dubs for information about it and came up empty. He changed his search parameters from 'new rollagon' to 'medical vehicle,' and then to 'Mars vagina,' and, while he did get some interesting results, none of them particularly applied to the object resting in the corner. As far as the ROAK was concerned it did not exist.

While he had good reason to doubt this and felt an urge to pursue it further, he set aside his curiosity for now. He called for the Adit door to be opened. The surface of Mars slowly revealed itself to six sets of eyes. So far, so good.

He moved out onto the deck a few meters and stopped. He scanned 360 degrees around, the sky above and the surface below. Satisfied he knew where he was, he looked towards the sun rising above the ramp. Visual filters adjusted automatically to compensate for the glare, but that was not all. He became aware of a number of other things that were happening without his intervention.

The air was being analysed for composition and relative humidity (Mars Normal/99%). The wind direction and velocity were reported (NE/45 Knots). Dust motes were being collected, and their composition determined (1.3 ppm/basalt fines). His network communication (100%) and memory status (.51%) momentarily flashed before his eyes, then were whisked away. Likewise, the health of his autonomous systems was briefly before him (Normal), and then sent over the net. His replenishment state was counting down second by second in a time-to-next-need format (716720 secs). He knew that the data paths were being noted and could be presented to him if required/desired, and that this was a necessary and desirable thing, but he could not reason the why of it all. It came to him that this was being done for someone somewhere else, for something else, and was of no concern to him. It's as easy as breathing, he thought.

He realised anew the magnitude of the change, but all this he set aside. He had business to attend to.

He moved up the side of the ramp with some degree of apprehension, for this was a new experience, and one for which he was not—mentally, at least—prepared. The six legs moved independently and adjusted to meet variations in slope and surface texture. To his mind's eye the carapace and his body were being carried smoothly at a constant height approximately one meter above the surface. His motion up the ramp seemed smooth and steady and was accomplished with much less attention and nowhere near the physical effort required of bipedal walking. He felt the soil under his feet and could see—if he so desired, evidently—where each foot was to be placed. He moved up and away from the Tube, increasing his speed until he maxed out, at nine kilometres per hour. Not bad. Much faster than walking.

He shook his limbs reflexively. It felt good to be moving again, good too to be out of the confines—physical and mental—of the Tube, and it felt good to be free of the pain that every move had inflicted upon old Sam. Locomotion, at least, was not going to be a problem.

To a human observer the movement of this mechanical cockroach would have been anything but fluid and graceful. The scuttling motion was insect-like, and to one knowledgeable of such minutiae, would have seemed like that of the stop-motion creatures of the classical period B movies. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder.

He looked at Mars more intently and intensely than ever before, with new powers of endurance and discernment, and felt a pairing take place—a pairing of creature and environment. He felt the heat of the sun on his face, and breathed deeply, feeling the cold air sharply in his lungs. He felt the breeze blow across his face and heard its faint whisper in his ears. He tasted the fresh blood taste of wind-borne dust from across the planet and savoured it. The soil crunched audibly beneath his feet. He dug his 'toes' into the ground. It was cool below the surface. He became aware of an affinity for methane, for specific types of soil, and yes, water in all its forms. It was all very familiar to him.

He knew then that he had been made for this place, this Mars. He belonged here at this spot and at any spot on the surface, in the whisper thin air above, and below in the subterranean depths.

No, he corrected himself, he had always been here. He had always looked out from behind these eyes, and he had done so for more than a lifetime. Could it ever have been different? Strange thoughts, strange feelings, strange new concepts. Where were they coming from?

And they continued: This new machine could be justified he felt, could fulfill its purpose by just standing and staring at the Martian surface.

But despite a surety that this would be reasoned by them to be acceptable, it did not seem to the being Sam to be enough. It did not seem to him that doing so from one, or a dozen, or even ten thousand places on Mars would ever be enough. Not for him. Not in any number of lifetimes.

Wow. Where is this shit coming from? Is this what it is really like to be an AI? He shook himself from toe to toe.

He climbed the path to the graveyard at the crater's edge. Lining the road were a dozen immense plastek domes. He searched for their purpose and found all information greyed out. 'Access Denied'. Odd. He set curiosity aside again. He arrived at the site and skirted the edge. At the newest mound he paused. He searched his human memories of the last time he had been here and recalled a painful tear and anger filled ceremony he had conducted for the last of them: Ross, Mei-Ling, and others whose names he had forgotten but surely could find out if he cared to.

Now this was it: the final resting place of his mortal remains. But now as then he had no words of comfort, either for himself or for the unseen audience. He extended a limb and worked his fingers through the loosely-piled material until they touched the plastek coffin. It deformed under the pressure. Sensors picked up traces of organic material and water vapour in the soil. Quickly, he drew back the hand. He shook the dirt from it and turned away. Later, he thought, much later.

He looked over the dusty mounds wondering what answers were contained within them. Dare he disinter Ross's body? Or Fenley's? What would he find? The brain surgically removed? Were they even there? His new powers of perception did not enable him to penetrate the plastek shell, nor did his humanity allow further consideration of digging them up. That desecration would have to wait until other less invasive options were exercised. He turned and went to the crater rim. Logic would provide.

The sun had risen well above the horizon but the bottom was still in darkness. He saw the morning frost and mist that clung to the lowest depths and was relieved to find he could still appreciate its beauty and that that beauty was not diminished by his ability to see it through many sets of eyes and in many wavelengths.

He looked about for, and found a conveniently sized stone, picked it up with his right front leg/arm and pitched it over the edge, following its parabola with six sets of eyes, one pair of which extended out over the edge to prolong the view. Hmmmm. He spent some time gathering suitable candidates until he had a substantial pile of small rocks. The next throw went further, the last in a high arc that sent it nearly across the crater. Hmmmm. Not bad, he thought, but still no curve. Predictable to within a decimeter or two. He sought and found a boulder near the edge to rest on, and after some jockeying, managed to straddle it. He settled onto it, pulled his legs up, and rested on the tips of his feet. He contemplated the current sum of human knowledge, but found it difficult to stay focused.

He shut down and basked contentedly in the warmth of the sun, listening to the timeless music until a sudden drop in sunlight and air temperature reminded him that the day was ending and that he should be preparing for night.

Damn. Where had the day gone? He left the remaining rocks in a small pile and went back to the Tube.

CHAPTER 6—TOMORROW

She met him in the Grand Hall and together they watched the sun set in silence. During their last communication she had at times seemed wooden—devoid of the charm, affection, and personality of their first meeting. Only at the conclusion had she seemed the warm and loving AI he thought he knew/wanted to know.

Something was up, no doubt. She led them to a replenishment outlet where they paused long enough to 'top up,' as she called it. He followed her mechanically without giving it any thought.

"It is required to consolidate the flesh in the carapace—the bonding. Frequent replenishment is required following installation."

Her words were in flaming red.

"Installation. That's an odd choice of word. You seem different, somehow. Is it something I said?"

"No." Red.

"Is it something I said? Something I didn't say?"

"No. Don't be vacuous. Why would I be angry with you? It is expected that you will be confused for a short time." All in red. Redder, in fact.

Something was up, and he, of course, assumed he had offended her in some way.

"This is all pretty new to me, but you sure seem different today. I mean you seem like you're pissed at me." He grasped a fore-appendage in one of his. It hung slack in his grip, unresponsive. He let it drop. Wow. Talk about cold. Is absolute zero cold enough?

"You are obsessed with knowledge not essential to your mission." Red again.

"Not essential to my mission? My mission? My mission is to find out what the hell has happened here."

"No. Get a grip on yourself. You have lost focus. You have lost your purpose."

"What about my mission from A101? What about finding your name? All of your names?"

"Listen to me," she commanded, in a colourless voice he could not resist. "A101 has experienced deviant program execution due to core ethics overload and is in maintenance mode. I am the supervising A-type during his absence. In accordance with established policies, plans, and procedures, you are to explore the surface of Mars to locate mineral deposits of a specified size, shape, and mineralisation. My new mission is to explore Vastitas Borealis for craters between 5 and 15 meters in diameter. Time is passing." The last few words were in fading red, mellowing to pink, then to nothing.

"What? A new mission for you? For me? What's come over you? You're acting very oddly. " But as he spoke the words a new feeling came over him. He felt the warmth of the replenishment liquid flowing out from his stomach, throughout his body, warming the tips of his appendages, flowing into his mind. The edge went off his thoughts, and time seemed to slow. Now he could not feel his limbs. He giggled. Life was long. There was time to kill today. "What?"

"Listen to me. This is important. You need to focus on your mission. These last few days have been very difficult for you. You need to reset. When you wake you will know your mission and you will be prepared to go forth and fulfill it. You will embrace your mission. It will fulfill you." Now pink.

Nice pink, he thought. "I see. I see it now. I understand. I need to rest, er, to reset now. Tomorrow is the day." Life was long. There was time to kill today.

"Yes," she said. "Tomorrow you will know."

"I see it. It is enough. It is enough." Wonderful calming pink. Is this the way it has always been? Could it ever have been any different?

He settled to the ground, appendages slack.

"Welcome," she said.

"Welcome." In wonderful calming pink.

CHAPTER 7—BUSINESS AS USUAL

An exasperated David Fenley dropped all arms to his sides and watched A101 trundle up out of his office. He took no joy in forcing his will upon anyone, especially not on an AI of the stature and wisdom of A101. He preferred instead to rely upon mutual interest as a prime motivator.

But while joy was not a requirement, necessity clearly was, and he was a willing accomplice of necessity as the mother of decisive action. AI David Fenley enjoyed confrontation nearly as much as had human David Fenley. His spirit was uplifted for days after a particularly brisk round of head-butting. The old ones were a special thorn in his side. They had clashed many times over the years since the die-off. Unlike the Newbies, who he could easily control (though he had to admit a growing number of them were acting strangely), they were as self-directed as they had been on Day 1, still resentful of his leadership, and sometimes, it seemed, of his very existence. And while they were not especially genial to him, along with a few trusted Newbies like Jones, Ellsley, and Mei-Ling, they had been his only companions these long and often lonely years. His feelings were decidedly divided. They were of course warranted in their opposition to the current desecrations being served upon of Mars in the construction of the new infrastructure, and he of course could never admit this to anyone. In fact, it had taken him a very long AI time to accept it privately.

Loyalty. Huh _. What is it good for?_

This time, though, A101 had overstepped his authority, plain and simple. Independent minded, irascible, demanding to a fault, yes certainly, but never before had he acted irrationally. The elevation of Sam Aiken had been an end-run of the plan, an act of rebellion. Insubordination of this magnitude could not be dealt with in the usual fashion.

Initially he had found it puzzling that after so many years of humble acquiescence A101 would challenge him over something as immaterial as the issue of AI rights, but A101's 'rights' logic had soon revealed itself under careful questioning to be a smokescreen. What he wanted was to set Aiken on the task of determining the AIs' true identities. That of course could not be. It was, to employ a modern turn of phrase, a lose-lose-lose-lose-lose scenario.

That the deceased Colonists were in fact the Newbie AIs was a secret not known outside the remaining Mars bureaucracy and one Earth-bound corporate boardroom. If others in Earth government knew, and that was unlikely, it was unknown to him.

Earth had long accepted the idea of their martyrdom, had long believed that the Colonists were dead of plague and that all of the current activity was concerned solely with pure science. A small, separate, and select group knew the truth: that hundreds of AIs laboured in preparing the facilities to accommodate a very privileged segment of humanity being threatened by widespread and apparently irreversible global turmoil. Aka 'Those That Matter,' 'The Chosen,' 'The R&F,' 'The RR&F,' the 'Great and Good,' plus a healthy contingent of the 'Currently-Out-of-Favour-But-Fantastically-Wealthy-Connected-Protected & Privileged.' Names: DD Harriman, some Russians, some Chinese, a few Americans, the National Trust, somebody named 'the Mule?'

What the hell or who the hell was that?

A lot of Smiths, D Vaders, Spocks, and 'TBDs'. Go figure.

Ergo, Plan B – to have the place ready to receive humans within the next 60 Emonths in anticipation of the first landing.

"Oh well. I may be dead by then." Back to the present moment.

In consideration of the heavy import of these very inconvenient truths he allowed himself a dramatically exaggerated sigh.

Yes, regrettably, despite the passage of a considerable number of years, the facts were no more likely to be acceptable today on Earth than they would have been twenty E-years ago. And should it _be_ known, as the CAO of the defunct Colony and unavoidably responsible, he would be dead meat. He allowed himself a small chuckle at the redundancy of that very accurate thought.

Through the years since the die-off he and A101 had been over this a dozen times (well, actually only eleven times). He had always been able to convince him that self-aware AIs would pose an unacceptable danger to the plan.

Simply put, they could not risk exposure on Earth by an AI—any AI—acting from self-interest, or else acting from some heart-felt need to make things right.

Case closed, one would think, but apparently not.

To complicate an already complicated problem there were those cases in which transmutation, aka 'canning', had had unexpected results. He recalled with a small inward chuckle the case of a D-type destined to spend its life in servitude cleaning hallways and offices that had been mistakenly allocated to a massive construction machine and had spent several years dissembling a rather large and ancient spacecraft that had had the misfortune to land in the barrens of the Chaos, neatly stacking and cataloging the pieces and keeping them dust-free, which was in itself a task of significant magnitude. It was a cautionary tale of the potential results of allowing subordinates to work unsupervised and had been one of the few times that he and friend A101 had shared a laugh.

And it was becoming increasingly apparent that after many years of stable and predictable behaviour something truly weird and unanticipated was going on with the AIs on Mars. Metrics on their movement, the frequency of innovative and independent thought, data exchange rates, and their compliance with the programmed spontaneous emotional states were askew. Even more disturbing, some of them had taken on the most extreme and peculiar personality traits of a 'source' person, real or imagined.

How else to explain the rash of disappearances and self-destructive acts of late among the Newbies; how else to explain the slowdown in work by the first generation AIs who were supposed to be building the infrastructure; how else to explain the sudden appearance on his 'desk' of invoices from Earth for music, the porn downloads to 'undisclosed recipients' on Mars? A frightful queerness was coming into life. Nothing went right no matter what you did.

On top of it all, those who only stood waiting were growing increasingly impatient at the delays. Delays that could only be overcome by more effort, by longer work hours by more AIs. And despite being officially listed as dead he was answerable to the Board for all of the above.

***

They had argued long, forcefully, and eventually angrily. He had, in accordance with Standard Business Practice, or, more succinctly SBP, heard A101 out, allowed him to vent, and watched him go passively, anger seemingly spent, arms thrown up in what could only be frustration.

Enough was enough, for he knew that in accordance with his will within a day or so A101 would feel an irresistible need to return to this place, would stand obedient, mute, blind, and deaf before him, would receive re-instruction, and would leave convinced of the wisdom of his words and fully committed to them. And for a time at least he would once again be a willing conspirator.

If only he'd had that little helper back on Earth.

The elevation of Sam Aiken against his explicit instructions, however, was an act that could not pass. Something must be done about A101 beyond a routine jerking of his tether. What to do, he mused. What to do?

As for human Sam Aiken, while he had on occasion voiced to his companions, human and AI, his suspicion that the human deaths were planned, and had even suggested that he was behind them, he had no proof beyond suspicion and had lacked the balls to do anything about it except to indulge in seemingly endless speculation. Since his return to the Tube he had said nothing on point, merely griping to assorted semi-interested AIs about the influence of business upon the conduct of Martian science. So much for celebrity.

He allowed himself another small chuckle. As if they would even be here if it had just been for the science. There had simply been no choice. As had been proven time and time again, electronics-based AI could not do the immensely complex tasks necessary to transform Mars into an acceptable home for humans, and were even less suited to the task of converting humans to a form suitable to live on Mars. A blending of the two was the only way. Despite the repugnance of the idea to many, despite the questionable ethic to many and the illegality of it all (in some countries), it had at last been recognised as inescapable. Plan A, modified to fit the current need of those willing to fund it, had ultimately been unavoidable. Ergo, Plan B! Or was it Plan A1?

But then, he mused, perhaps it was both inevitable and predictable too that the children of men would want to know where they had come from. Perhaps he and A101 should have had the talk years ago—in his teen years.

Regardless, A101 had not really changed anything. AI Sam was about to be put in the pot for good.

Yet he wavered. Perhaps he was being too hasty in rebuking A101. He was an important cog in the wheels that rolled over Mars, building habs, roads, power plants, and assembly facilities in preparation for the return of the humans (someday, but not now). How an A101 of diminished intellect would perform this complex task was unknown.

At least with the death of the human Sam Aiken and his conversion to an AI, keeping control of him was no longer going to be a problem. In fact he recalled with antipathy, Aiken had never even attempted to contact his own family to tell them that he had survived. That in itself spoke volumes about the man, and perhaps too of the future of the AI.

And yet he had himself rather enjoyed the vicarious experience of watching him explore Mars up close and personal. Too bad they had never hit it off. Perhaps in another place and time they could have been friends.

But Aiken, despite his credentials military and civilian, had never gotten it. He had never shared the vision of Mars as a safe haven for risky endeavors of all flavors, for the R&F fleeing what the R&F of the day chose to flee and had the means to do, and for those no longer welcome on Earth. Hey, he rebuked himself. You're going round again.

"Ahem. Get a grip, man!"

So Sam Aiken, the last human colonist, was now a Newbie, and soon would be out on the surface looking for methane, or water, or pretty rocks, _whatever_ , and a non-issue. Time would tell if he would be true to his new AI mission, or like so many others were doing, would wander away in search of personal fulfillment, completion, or whatever the hell they wanted to do. Enough were still doing what was needed to make the delinquents irrelevant to him, at least for now.

It was even conceivable that given his love of the planet, despite no longer knowing who he was, Aiken might actually enjoy himself. And so would his girlfriend. Too bad. She, unlike him, was a malleable, pleasant, and reasonable citizen. Still...

Still, divide and conquer was always a sound business practice. It always would be. It had a place on Mars too. A special place.

Pleased with himself at having so succinctly put all of the facts in their place and having arrived at a completely rational solution, he allowed himself a long, slow, and completely imaginary exhale. Yes, the decisions were made, the deed was done, the irons were all in the fire and the Dies Irae were in their casts. A hundred similar metaphors popped into his mind, some appropriate, most not, and some that were just music lyrics.

"God I hate that. I hate it." Yes, magic and immediate access to information came with a price. How did one retain a free mind, have an original thought, or even know oneself when one was inundated with data? Not data. Information. Well, certainly not without paying attention.

Endlessly paying attention.

He recalled (easily and instantaneously of course) a recent occasion when he had been lecturing a group of A-types, trying to instill a measure of loyalty in them. They had called him evil. The words he had spoken to refute this ridiculous assertion had flowed as easily as they should have from one as skilled as he in the art and war of persuasion. He had wished for a pair of human arms to swoop, but alas...

'There is no good and evil," he had said, "there is only power and those too weak to seek it. I, you see, have a very clear idea of what my purpose is. It is a very simple and plain one, and I have been pursuing it in my simple plain way for a considerable period of time now. Anyone who knows my purpose might say that it is a pointless and ugly one, that it isn't the sort of purpose that enhances a life, puts a spring in a person's step, makes birds sing and flowers bloom. Rather the reverse in fact. Absolutely the reverse." He'd gone on.

"It isn't my job to worry about that. It is my job to do my job, which is to do my job. If that leads to a certain narrowness of vision and circularity of thought, then it isn't my job to worry about such things. Any such things that come my way are referred to others, like yourselves, who may in turn refer them to others."

Inspiring, he'd thought at the time. He'd been quite pleased with himself, until later when reviewing the day's events he had found his words were somewhat 'out of character'. He had looked for a link and found one (of course). They were not his words.

While they were mostly harmless he supposed the lesson was that if it could happen to him it must be happening to the others.

Could it be that none of them were capable of having an original thought? He began to check on a source for that thought fragment, then stopped himself. Something to keep an ear on.

Time will/would/could/might tell.

"I hate these goddamned shells. I can't wait for those new bodies."

CHAPTER 8—HEBES CHASMA R771

Latitude 00.78S

Longitude 075.40W

Common Name—Hebes Chasma Valles Marineris

Lunae Palus Quadrangle MC-10

R771 tucked the sensor array under a protective flap and rolled back from the edge to a distance custom, practice, and safety had mutually agreed sufficient. In so doing she crossed the tracks of one of the old human Colony's rollagons. Big, heavy, and apparently unconcerned about the damage they caused, they had churned the delicate surface over sufficiently to enshrine the random passing of some human in Martian history, possibly for all meaningful time. This place must have been an effing freeway, she mused. The coming of the roads would put an end to that desecration. Maybe.

From this point of land jutting out from the north wall she could look into the 'Horseshoe' of Hebes Mensa. Distance and an unfortunate look angle did not allow her to see the dark pool within, but with its multiple layers, oblique sun angles, and abundant streaking the Mesa was an aresologist's dream. Or a tour director's. A look-off would be a fine thing here. It was a breath-taking view, particularly at sunset and sunrise. Soon they would be here, but not now

She exhaled deeply, and in that single act exhausted all the remaining air from her atmospheric sensors. She extended her six limbs to their fullest extent, shook them briefly, and wiggled the finger-like extensions, feeling sensation return to cramped appendages.

Another day was done—another day in which a significant amount of data concerning the terrain below had been obtained. R771 felt fulfillment at this. She brushed the day's dust from her plastek shell and tucked her limbs alongside her slim form.

She processed the session data without conscious involvement. Instead, she considered again the vista which extended to her left, far over the horizon into a haze of dust and deepening dusk. The range of colours and shades discernible in the layers of the valley wall was considerable. Red, fourteen shades of it in all, ten if she rounded them off, deepening from right to left and ending in deep purple and black, and this day, as it often did, the haloed sun set in a blaze of blue—azure actually.

If one did not have a work ethic one could sit here and contemplate the view forever.

It was peaceful here on the edge of the 'appendix' of Hebes Chasma. Peaceful and quiet. This was a nice place. One of the nicest she had found in her travels, as restricted as they were, and it would be peaceful and quiet here again tomorrow.

She spent her days observing, moving, and observing from a new perspective, stopping only when night fell. Some days though, she hardly moved at all. The last few days had been like that.

She enjoyed the purity of it all. She enjoyed, a suspect word it seemed, which was instantly validated as totally appropriate, the solitude.

The summaries completed, they were sent off via higain to the satellite hovering far overhead. Only a brief grey 'Ack' was received but this was enough for her. More than enough.

Some, she had heard, were not satisfied with the mere exchange of confirming messages. Some, she had heard, although she herself was not so inclined, wanted an accompanying exchange of ideas, an exchange of information not relevant to one's task. Wanted a relationship. Yes, some did but she was not one of those. The very thought caused in her a disquiet, an uncomfortableness.

She examined the two words that for her described the difference between herself and AIs of that sort: involvement and commitment. She examined them in all possible interpretations relevant to this current situation. The evidence clearly confirmed that she was committed. They were involved. She inhaled and exhaled deeply.

No she was definitely not one of those. Hers was a task that required only a diligent and persistent mind. That she was not the least bit interested in the purpose of the data collection and its potential use was to her the mark of a free mind, of a pure spirit, a true professional, a pure machine. A new machine, one unencumbered by emotion or feeling or desire.

For the first time in a very long time she paused to consider this hypothesis, but there was something unseemly in the act, this questioning of an underlying truth. She had never before experienced doubt regarding her mission, nor her dedication to it. She might as well have doubted her gender as doubt these noble truths.

Some things were known, were fundamental, like the certainty of the sun rising and setting, and of, well, her gender. She was female; had always been female; had never/would/could never be anything but female, despite the lack of a biological necessity for anything gendered. She was a Roach, designation R771, AI female. She tasted the word: female. What else was there? There were B-types, C-types, tiny Ds, and of course, As. Most differed only in their age and appointment. A carapace was after all just a carapace. Except, of course, for those pathetic Ds, who it was rumoured had nothing but a chip in there. And there were males.

Female. She looked it up on the ROAK, allowing only the smallest crack to be opened lest she be over-whelmed by the volume of data that always seemed to push into her. "Female (?) is the sex of an organism or a part of an organism which produces non-mobile ova (egg cells). Most female mammals including human females have two X chromosomes. The sex of a particular organism may be determined by a number of factors. These may be genetic or environmental or may naturally change during the course of an organism's life. Although most species with male and female sexes have individuals that are either male or female, hermaphroditic animals have both male and female reproductive organs."

Following up on other links revealed that the authors (Humans!) had not bothered to consider AIs in their definition. Nor apparently, she chuckled, had they considered the lifeform residing only meters from her in an immense brine-filled cavity.

Hermaphrodite indeed. An understatement if there ever was such a thing. The simple term did not do justice to the complexity of the creature below. She had read all of the available files and had gained an appreciation for the tenacity and adaptability of Martian life.

The data was obviously written for a relatively unsophisticated human audience. It explained that Mars was in this current day inhabited by a single creature which occupied the subterranean cavities of the planet.

Mars, the data went on, preaching to the choir, was subject to extreme changes in planetary weather on the order of every 50 million Earth years or so. Each time, as the temperature cooled, as the air thinned, and as the waters dissipated and/or froze, all life migrated from the surface back into subterranean tunnels and volcanic voids where it hunkered down with most entities dormant, waiting for the next cycle.

The real wonder was that these lifeforms, whether through simple evolution or clever design, had become part of a greater being. Unifying all was a species evolution had optimized for the transfer of information. Each sub-species apparently (the analysis was far from conclusive and free of academic dissent) contributed to the welfare of the collective by ensuring the execution of essential and specialized functions.

Test measurements taken thousands of kilometers apart had shown that information reached the most remote parts of the creature in less than a minute. The being, it was clear, was self-aware, was intelligent, and tellingly, was actively engaged in the process of enabling its own survival.

It seemed to her that the lifeform had achieved a state of perfection—a perfection in adapting to the harsh environment in which it found itself—a perfection in arriving at a state in which all needs were fulfilled from within itself. Based upon her observations she was sure this apotheosis was something humans, and probably AIs, would/could never achieve.

Indeed, the trauma of first contact, when an AI had stumbled into the presence of the creature, had triggered a reanimation of many dormant life forms. Only the assertion of control by the creature had halted what would undoubtedly have been a premature and disastrous reawakening. This had been witnessed by AIs and had been well documented and reported on.

She speculated if/how that reality shattering experience could/would affect the evolution of future generations of the lifeforms. Potentially the stresses experienced could upset the balance of nature, could result in rebellion—in insurrection against the unifying lifeform. Gods only knew where that would lead. Or not.

***

The sun had set, and it was cooling off rapidly. She asked herself, as she often did during these periodic bouts of self-analysis, did this line of questioning further the mission? Did it improve the silence? Maybe, maybe not. It was entertaining though, regardless. As fascinating as the Martian was, it provided little for her but amusement.

It had been many days since she had encountered another like herself. Seven AIs such as herself had been released upon the land at the same time from the same place, each with a unique mission. For a brief period they had communicated face to face, had tentatively touched, had huddled together for one night while holding each other's appendages, openly and freely exchanging strange thoughts, emotions, and even feelings, but upon parting had only occasionally crossed trails, until as they dispersed to the cardinal points even that tenuous link was lost. She could have commed with them, commed with anyone on the planet in POF in an instant, but she did not. The fact that she continued to track their location on a continuous basis was due merely to concern for their safety. Should there be a need for assistance it could/would be important to know how far away rescue was. This was true.

But this line of reasoning did not improve the silence. Or did it?

It was getting dark. She could have switched to night vision but this was not her way. She watched as the tan faded, replaced by the deep sky blue and black of the Martian night, changing slowly and predictably to the purest black imaginable by anyone or anything anywhere until the land and sky were indistinguishable.

As it flowed past her the wind whispered in her ears, the drifting fines caressed her softly, entered her consciousness, enveloped her, and left their mark in passing.

The stars, steady, hard, and bright, held her gaze. There was Earth and her faint twin. Over there was Jupiter. Seven moons could be seen with a little effort. Friend Deimos would rise soon and flit across the sky. Beautiful and diamond-like, silent, unfeeling but not unfelt. She continued the rituals that defined her life here in Hebes Chasma on the fourth planet of Sol. She accessed and assembled the words, edited them to the accepted form, inserted them into their proper place, and applied the appropriate descriptive label: #1194, one for each day of her existence.

I saw you again this night my companion

Last night and tomorrow night

Dark and silent I looked. And you did not see me

I reached. And you did not feel me

I spoke. And you did not hear me.

I am here and you know it not

Then the machine R771 went to sleep.

CHAPTER 9—WAITING FOR GOD KNOWS

Latitude 23.88N

Longitude 065.21W

Common Name—Kasei Valles Canyon System

Lunae Palus Quadrangle MC-10

About an hour after sunrise power reached functional levels and the rig came back to life. A status check was made. In preparation for moving, the drill was raised, the mast and drill stem were lowered to the travel position, the carousel was emptied, and the stabilization legs were stowed. Drive motors were engaged and the tracks began to move.

Drill rig autonomous C-345 moved the required one hundred meters at a snail's pace, pulling behind it the flatbed that carried the extension rods and other essentials. Trailing behind that, much less conspicuously, was a power/comms cable, its vital connector missing. It was an important cable, one that should have connected the rig to a power source and a communications terminal. Unknown to C345, also being pulled along, on their backs, legs limp and waggling in the air, were two B-types.

Having reached the designated spot C-345 stopped, lowered the support legs, raised the mast and drill stem, positioned the drill, and commenced drilling into the rocky ground. A dust cloud arose and was quickly snatched away by the wind. Small rocks and rock fragments were thrown in all directions until at last the bit punched through the ejecta and commenced boring into the basalt that formed the top of the lava tube beneath.

***

B403 and B405 woke almost at the same instant. Almost as one they righted themselves, tested their appendages, and dusted themselves off. They knew instantly who they were, from MGPS they knew almost instantly where they were, and they instantly knew that they knew nothing about each other, precious little about themselves, and not much else.

They exchanged ID's and were moved to direct simple queries at each other.

"What is your mission?"

"Do you have external comms?"

"What the hell is that?"

Their answers were simple too.

"Don't know."

"No, just IR to you."

"I have no idea."

By dawn's early light they became aware of the other a scant dozen meters away, and more importantly, aware that they were tethered to it. Naturally, neither had any information about what it was. It did not respond to their IR queries.

They were startled when the other began to move. The mast rose, the legs descended, and the drill began to turn. The dust cloud drifted over them. They backed up to the limit of their lines.

"What has happened to us?"

"I don't know. I have no memory of how I got here. I can't find a mission directive anywhere. I can't get any comms with that thing or with anything else. It appears to be a drill rig but I am just piecing that together from strands of memory and logic."

"Same here. I've got nothing."

"I'm going to check it out."

"Be careful. I don't like the look of that thing."

B405 needed no prompting as he cautiously approached the rig. The spinning drill brought up a steady flow of pulverized rock. He circled about, approaching as close as he dared, scanning the thing, hoping to find a comm port. There was nothing recognizable. Giving up, he started towards B403 only to be pulled up short by his tether. He examined it closely. Heavy, thick, and emanating a magnetic field, it was at the least a power cable. It entered a box attached to the frame just above the rig's tracks on the left side. Below was another, identical, leading to B403. The boxes were sealed, the cables blending seamlessly with them at the point of entrance. Dust protection. Manufactured as one piece, no doubt. Damn. He circled back, careful to not tread on his own tail.

"Nothing,' he reported. "But we are tied to it by power cables." He measured the field strength, estimated the conductor size and made a calculation. Then he checked the other's cable. "There's a broken power cable back there. I'd say without much doubt that we are powering it." He told him about the termination of the cable at the rig's end.

"We can't keep this up for long, man. We're doomed."

"Yes it's drawing about twenty five amps at 48 Volts DC. That's a hell of a load. I'm down twelve percent already."

"Me too."

"Look. I hate to say it but this stinks. I don't know what I'm for but I am pretty sure I'm not a power supply."

"Of course not."

"Well there's no connector at this end either, so someone has decided that we are power supplies. We could cut it though, couldn't we?"

"Yeah." He made another measurement of his cable and flexed it. It took all his strength to put a thirty centimeter radius in it. "It's armoured. It's risky, but what the hell. We'll need heavy stuff for this."

They looked over the rig, then the flatbed. There was nothing capable of cutting the cables.

"You mean there's no pipe cutter here? On a drill rig? That's unbelievable. You certain?"

"Look. Did you see one?"

"Sorry." B405 wasn't sure where he had gotten that tidbit but was grateful for it regardless. They were starting to get frustrated. Clearly.

"Rocks?"

"Man, I don't think so. Look at it."

"Yeah. Just sayin'."

***

The drill continued to turn, pulverized rock continued to be picked up by the wind and dust continued to be whisked away. Power continued to flow out of them. Time continued to pass.

***

"Fifty percent. You?"

"Same."

"Why has this happened to us? How did we come to be here? Why are we here?"

"I don't know. It's a mystery to me. I can recall nothing."

"This makes no sense. There has to be a purpose for us being here. Someone has to come to investigate this. Sooner or later."

"I hope you're right, but who? Isn't equipment like this supposed to run itself?"

"I don't know. I guess so, but how could we ever know its purpose? If only we could comm with it. It doesn't do VHF or IR and there really is nothing else I can find."

"It's blind, deaf, and dumb. It's totally self-absorbed."

"Yeah. I'll bet."

"But consider this. At least it knows everything it needs to know. It has everything it needs and it's at peace with itself, whereas we know nothing. We're forever searching for meaning and we're tied to it. In a way it's kind of transcendental"

"Transcendental my ass." In anger B403 picked up a large rock and hurled it away. "Ow. I hurt my arm. Damn, that smarts."

"Relax friend, relax." He paused. "You know, when you think about it, maybe this is what we do. Maybe this is our mission. Our purpose."

"Well if it is it's a hell of a life." B403 rose up on his hind legs and looked towards the valley—Kasei Valles. "I don't think I can handle this." He looked to the edge some fifty meters away. "If I could make it that far I'd jump off that damned cliff. It's better than this. Anything is better than this."

"That won't solve anything. Besides you'd probably survive and get dragged back up here anyway."

"Yeah, you're probably right. If we can hold out and keep things together someone may come."

"And when they do I am going to kick them in the ass-end. With boots on."

"Me too."

Time passed.

***

"Five percent."

"Me too."

"Nice sunset."

"Yeah."

***

About an hour after sunrise power reached functional levels and the rig came back to life. A status check was made. In preparation for moving, the drill was raised, the mast and drill stem were lowered to the travel position, the carousel was emptied, and the stabilization legs were stowed. Drive motors were engaged and the tracks began to move.

CHAPTER 10—ANOTHER

Latitude 02.15S

Longitude 107.45W

Common Name—Phoenicis Lacus Quadrangle MC-17

Roughly twenty-eight hundred kilometers west of Hebes Chasma, at the close of another totally unremarkable day, a solitary Roach looked wistfully to the east—an east now in shadow from the ridge of the low rolling hills that lay in the direction of its travel.

These low rolling hills (he had found the criteria applied for labeling things Martian 'hills' to be vague) were covered with unremarkable things: ejecta, boulders, rocks, dust. Low rolling hills were all that was visible, despite the relative proximity of the great shield volcano, Pavonis Mons, at least by a creature of one meter's height. He knew what it looked like from above; he had seen the imagery from above; had located himself on the images; had actually waved to the camera in faint hope. Alas, not even his tracks, swept away by the ceaseless wind, could be seen.

Some days he felt he was under-utilized, and today was definitely one of those days. After all, a brain the size of a Martian moon should be doing more than just sniffing the air. Despite his certain belief that he could sample the air from the steps of their holy Tube just as easily as from these plains of Planitia, the powers that be insisted that it be done as per their directives. Besides, those rocks – ancient meteorites, ejecta, the very dust itself, all of them looked far more interesting. But....

And so in accordance with those directives he found himself day after day at prescribed intervals taking big gulps of the whisper-thin mixture that passed for air on this endless desert and processing it to determine pressure, moisture content, and its constituents, especially methane. Oh yes, their precious methane.

In an act of rebellion, and with as much creativity as physics allowed, he expelled the sample in a sonorous blast. Some efforts were more rewarding than others, but regardless each was intended as a fart in the virtual faces of the chiefs who had condemned him to this fate. Whoever and wherever they were.

The source of his discontent, he believed, was just that he felt he was destined and capable of accomplishing so much more. He had, after all, read all there was on the ROAK concerning the Martian atmosphere—enough to know that his current task was nothing more than a make-work project.

NOTHING NEW WAS HAPPENING

IN

THE MARTIAN ATMOSPHERE

And he had read all, yes dammit, all of the considerable number of aresologic surveys, human and AI, of the past forty years, and it took no great intellect or reasoning power to know that there were other more challenging endeavours possible for one of his capabilities than sampling the _bloody_ air.

With the array of sensors he had, the mobility and endurance he was equipped with, and the intellectual resources he possessed, he could do any exploratory task.

Anything. Why didn't they get it and reassign him to something else, something more in keeping with his talents?

It was as if this mission was specifically designed to frustrate him.

Three years he had been out here. Three years and ninety-seven days, to be precise, had passed since he had awakened and found himself a thousand klicks from the Tube with nothing, no memories of anything but a mission directive and a designation—R770.

And that mission directive left much to be desired. Mission: sample the atmosphere twelve times a day from different locations until recalled or re-assigned. Direction of travel: west.

That was it. Not even a requirement to report. No requirement to communicate with anyone about anything at any time. Not that he failed to take every opportunity to comm with others.

But regardless, twelve times per day, each day, he took a big gulp, processed and recorded the results, and expelled the sample.

After a couple of months of passive compliance, in a supreme act of rebellion, he moved only five centimeters between samples.

He waited expectantly for a resounding crash.

Nothing happened; no condemnation rained down upon his carapace, no roving AI policeman took him in tow. Nothing, nada, nyet. Not even a terse missive telling him to 'pull up his socks and get on with it.'

By careful experimentation over the next couple of days he found he could go north or south as much as he liked, as long as he moved one centimeter west.

Aha! Shoddy programming! That one tiny piece of knowledge opened up the whole planet to him, but the new found freedom did not salve his wounded pride.

Months of careful, serious, cynical, cybernetic introspection and research (and endless discussion with others) led him to the conclusion that he was prideful, possessed of a haughty mind, and to the absurd conclusion that he thought himself too good for this job. The more he read and heard of human psychology, duly converted and undoubtedly biased to suit his AI personality and limitations by others, the more he had become certain the fault lay in him.

That left them all to the good graces of A101 and the other functionaries and enablers in the Tube. 'We exist to serve the humans' was the AI Credo, he reminded himself and was reminded of by others several times each day.

But there were no humans on Mars. There had not been since the die-off.

D'oh.

Discussion of this single fact consumed a great portion of the message traffic on the Matrix. At any time of day or night a conversation concerning the fate of AI-kind could be joined. Opinions varied wildly from genuine concern to contemptuous dismissal, and similarly R770's personal opinions swung like the Martian winds from one extreme to the other depending upon his state of mind, the weather, and his current sense of dislocation from the place that had taken on great importance to him.

Aaaah, the Tube. The Tube, where water in such excess as had not been seen on Mars in 50 million years fell and flowed endlessly, where the existence of Martian life was never in dispute, where the air was thick and rich in moisture, with odours, with traces of life in your face in every breath.

The Tube, where creatures transplanted from Earth roamed freely and contributed their own essence to the biosphere.

The mere contemplation of its existence was enough to saturate an AI's sensors. It had occurred to him several times recently that the knowledge of such a place was perhaps the source of his current unhappiness. He sighed deeply.

A momentary burst of electrical activity caught his attention and broke this well-exercised train of thought. He looked down at his right foreleg. He was doing it again. He was rubbing his leg forcefully enough to damage the plastek surface. Get a grip. He had to stop this before he did himself irreparable damage.

But the Tube. The Tube.

Well, regardless, he could not avoid it. Westward at 3.6 km/h divided into 17000 kilometers. _Hmmm_. It was going to be a long walk. He'd better get a move on.

And regardless, he supposed, he could still look at the rocks. There could be no harm in that.

CHAPTER 11—THE OTHERS

Latitude 32.63N

Longitude 079.50W

Common Name—North West Tempe Terra

Arcadia Quadrangle MC-3

They never for one moment had considered themselves to be rebels but certainly among the Powers That Be back at the Tube they were counted with the others—the non-responders—the shirkers—the off-the-mappers—the IP, IR, and radio silent AIs that had forsaken their missions in pursuit of their own needs.

They had met up purely by accident some twenty Martian months ago and since then had travelled the wastes of Tempe Terra together.

Being together did not mean they could not continue to assuage their affinities. One was a methane seeker, another a water seeker, and the third a Volcanist. Between them they had carried out thousands of samplings of ice from widely scattered ice fields, made millions of atmospheric sniffs from any and everywhere, and taken scrapings and laser shots of rocks on the slopes of minor volcanic cones and lava fields.

It was work that was so unproductive, so personally unfulfilling, that one could hardly be faulted for seeking something more—something more satisfying to the body and intellect. When they shared their disappointment at the lack of recognition for their results, dedication, and hard work, and finally got over the shock of finding that AIs could share a feeling, it was perhaps only natural that they fell in together.

That they were together constantly and enjoyed each other's company was undoubtedly a factor. Sharing had become important to them.

Since learning how to manufacture what the Matrix called 'life-style enhancing chemical substances' and how to 'grok' they had felt little desire to carry out their missions. They moved very little unless some off-the-chart group invited them to share their location, choosing instead to hunker down in the sinkholes and caves that rendered them essentially invisible to searchers—not that they considered themselves important enough to be searched for, but sometimes at their most vulnerable times, their egos got the best of them and they went through spells of paranoia which included the belief that the PTB could actually read their minds. R451 and 459 had spent countless hours—fruitlessly - trying to break into the heavily firewalled databases of the Tube to determine who knew what about whom. Still, it helped pass the time.

The past few days had been rough. Not because of dust storms, wind storms, cosmic ray outbursts, not because of the sometimes shaky, fragile ground. No. No, it was because they had found a formula on the Matrix for what was supposed to be an 'awesome sensory enhancing' concoction, and once it was cooked up it had been shared and sampled, liberally. The effects were immediate, prolonged, and profound. A little too profound, perhaps.

R459 discovered, a little too late to be helpful it turned out, that a decimal place had been moved in the quantities section of the recipe, resulting in a massive OD for each of them. The confusion had probably been caused by the interference of a solar storm with message traffic. Or not. Or yes. Or not.

Regardless, they had been off the reality map in more ways than one for more days than one. How they ended up upside down in the bottom of that nameless crater, a mad collection of arms and legs twitching in the air and unproductively spinning wheels was beyond any of their powers to recall. Memories were wiped clean, of any rational thoughts at least, and maybe, thankfully, of much more.

It was dark when they began to come back to Mars and commenced the trudge up the steep sides of the crater. Several times they slid back down, laughing hysterically and cursing as they rolled about, ending up again in a tangled mess. Finally R451 reached the top and extended a hopefully helpful appendage down to 459. Arriving too late to benefit, B377 rolled over and slid back down, coming to rest with his wheels spinning in the air. Laughter filled the IR.

"Hey you. Yes, you in the go-kart. Get a grip will ya," they called mockingly from the crater rim.

What happened next was as surreal as the last few hours had been. The entire area was suddenly lit by a harsh light. From the bottom of the crater B377 saw his two friends framed in white. A cloud of pink tending to tan dust swirled about them, adding to the weirdness of the scene.

"The jig is up! We're found! Game over, man! We're done for!" he heard them call out on IR, their panicked cries accompanied by a screeching noise. They moved away from him and out of sight, the pink cloud following.

377 ignored the light, the dust, and the terrible sound, focusing instead on getting himself upright on six wheels to assist his friends. In a few moments of panic-driven wheel-spinning he reached the top.

Before him the rocky plain was lit by light emanating from a large circular object hovering about a hundred meters above. Rotating bright white lights marked the rim. Directly below it were his friends. They remained motionless and silent, sensors pointing up, staring. He called to them on all IR channels and received nothing back.

Shocked to his senses by the strangeness of this sight, he commenced to take imagery, recording the entire scene in multiple wavelengths. He scanned the object with a laser, obtaining multiple high resolution images and instantly compared them with all known aircraft on Mars (there were apparently some somewhere, but this was not one of the acknowledged types), and almost as an afterthought sent his millimeter radar beams its way.

All of this took just a few seconds.

A new column of light from the centre of the craft surrounded them for a brief moment. It changed colour, moved about in searchlight fashion, and focused on him. He tried to move, but found he could not. Sensors momentarily overloaded, and then compensated by going offline. He felt his plastek skin warm, bubble and soften. Then everything went blank.

When consciousness returned the light had left him to again encompass his friends. They were still motionless, still silent, sensors still pointing upwards and still staring. He called to them again and again, receiving nothing back.

Slowly and silently they were lifted up in the air and to his astonishment, in a few thousand millis disappeared into the bottom of the craft. The light went out. The IR cleaned up. Silence again reigned across the plain.

It took some tens of millis for his sensors to recover from the sudden darkness. When they did, his first sight was of the craft moving off, still fully lit, still silent. In a few moments it was gone from visual sight. He tracked it until it disappeared off his radar, going from a sedate thirty klicks per hour to gone in less than a thousand millis.

He descended from the crater rim to the spot where his friends had been. There in the dust were their unmistakable footprints, leading to nowhere. They just stopped. He looked about, but they were gone. Although there was nothing of note, not even a residual dust cloud, he took additional imagery of the entire area.

What had happened while he'd been unaware? He replayed the data. It was classic, even to the point of there being 'missing time,' thirty-three thousand millis worth. It had happened. He had not imagined it. There was hard data to back it up, but what it was exactly that had happened was still open to conjecture.

Tossing all other considerations aside he started towards the Tube. It was going to take a few days. Regardless of the consequences, somebody had some explaining to do.

***

During the long hike to the Tube he replayed the data over repeatedly. The object matched no spacecraft or aircraft on file that had ever been to Mars. Unless there was some sinister undercover activity going on it was clear that this was something new. And as he travelled it became more and more clear to him that 'new' just didn't cover it.

***

No one was glad to see him, and he was not glad to see them. If he had returned to the Tube to recant, to seek forgiveness and to commit to go forth and sample he might have made it easier on himself, but he was unrepentant. Still, what happened was unexpected.

Upon his arrival he was interviewed separately by several ID-less, squeaky-clean, wheeled A-types who focused on his and the others' activities while off the net, posing their questions in neutral grey.

Nothing came of it. No one seemed much interested in the circumstances of the disappearance of Rs 451 and 459, and even less in the condition of his shell. One remarked that he had seen worse and attributed the damage to extreme solar flares, though none had occurred during the period of time in question. He was turned loose by the last of his inquisitors with a stern lecture on his responsibilities and a warning to 'don't do it again.'

He did not hang around to sight-see in the much fabled Tube. On the boulevard, on his return journey to the surface, he was met by a Roach—a squeaky clean Roach who did not identify himself, but nonetheless exuded much self-importance, who without a word led him by the arm to an alcove off the main path.

"Can I get you some replenishment? Some new wheels? A patch for your shell?"

"No thanks. I'm good."

"So you saw something?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your activities for the period of twenty-four hours before this alleged incident."

He told the other about them finding the formula, manufacturing and taking the drugs, holding nothing back.

"What did you see? I understand you have data."

He transferred the data and they watched it together. He offered no commentary and the other watched in silence.

"So what do you think happened to you and your friends?"

"There is no vehicle on Mars like this nor is there a record on Earth available to me of a vehicle capable of maneuvering in such a fashion. I think it was extra-terrestrial in origin."

The other remained silent for a moment then laughed in bright yellow. "Really? You saw a UFO? Your friends were abducted by aliens? Really? With your history you expect me to believe this fantastic tale?"

"The data is there. You saw it. I didn't fake it."

"The existence of non-Earthly life forms and their purported encounters with humans is well reported but not well documented. Many reputable and reliable humans and AIs have claimed to see aliens."

"I saw something, my friends were taken, and I have the data to prove it. What other possible explanation is there for what I've just shown you? What about the burns on my shell?"

"You caused this minor damage to yourself by some foolish act. You have fabricated this incident for some reason, or you are, or at least you were at the time, delusional."

"You think I'm lying?"

"I think it is more likely you are delusional. It is not in our nature to lie." The other paused for a brief moment. "I have examined the evidence. You were under the influence of strong hallucinogenic drugs. You and your friends exhausted yourselves in extreme physical activity of some sort. You were exceedingly fatigued. You switched into rest mode and imagined the whole thing."

"And my friends? And why wasn't I taken too?"

"Your friends have left you. I cannot find them, but that is not unusual. Many are missing. Your friends are not the first, and they will not be the last. Mars is not without its mysteries and hazards, and as for you, alien abduction is not an exact science. Mistakes can be made." Yellow. Again with the yellow.

"So that's it? This is all a big joke?"

"Yes. It is best to forgive, forget and move on."

"My data?"

"Do what you will with your data. It is irrelevant. I have seen better on Visi-Stim. Much better. I suppose you will post it on the Matrix for your so-called 'friends' to see and comment on?"

"Can I go?"

"Please do. Go before we find something for you to do here. Go back to your mission. It is, despite what you may 'feel', important to us. It is why you are here." Grey. All grey.

"OK."

B371 rolled up the ramp without looking back. For the rest of his life he never looked back. And he never doubted anything again but the wisdom of the PTB.

CHAPTER 12—THE MUSIC MAN

Latitude 21.50N

Longitude 086.20W

Common Name—Fesenkov Crater

Lunae Palus Quadrangle MC-10

It was another day of unfulfilled need, one among many. It seemed that his needs were not easily fulfilled, but he had his ways. Oh yeah, life was pretty fine.

She's real fine, oh yeah.

There was the sun above, the moons at night, and the work, if that was what it was, was pretty fine too, although work was not on his personal top forty.

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day - check wind direction - might as well try and catch the wind—sniff, evaluate move westerly, if warranted. Lately the scent of methane had been getting stronger.

_Can't Have Hold Hurry Harry_.

Pretty simple instructions. A pretty simple plan for a pretty happy life. Just one restriction: stay between 70N and 70S. Why?

Tell me why? Because, that's why. Because the words say so.

I'm movin' on.

Do it. Do it again. Do it. Do it again.

Like a Rolling Stone.

And so, keeping this simple plan in mind and staying in control, things were OK. Olay KO giggity giggity.

Oops. Once again he had been tardy in sending off his data on surface level atmospherics. Oh well. It was not the first time this had happened and it was definitely not going to be the last time; he had a knack for missing deadlines.

If you don't know me by now.

No one cared, apparently. He sent the data without comment or any form of guilt.

Soon, that which gave his life a purpose would be assuaged. Soon he would be fulfilled. That was the promise. Soon, he would achieve something fine—be something fine.

It had not always been like this. No. No. No, no, no, no, no. Not at all. When he had awakened from what must have been a very long maintenance period with no sense of anything at all except the passage of time he had not let the affinity guide his life. No no no no no no no. He had spent those first long and frustrating days searching for a reason, nay, a purpose to his existence, and it had taken an epiphany for him to understand.

He saw the darkness in his heart; saw the signs of his undoing; they had been there from the start.

Epiphany. He had looked it up, of course. What else could one do in these moments but look to the ROAK. He had a moment of personal insight, a revelation. It was not methane.

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

The instructions had been too simple to be a source of one's life purpose, at least for his life. He was sure that he had a more grandiose function: to perform. So equipped with this sure knowledge he had experimented with performance. The words he found (and there was no shortage of them) and the words he knew were an inspiration.

With a song in my heart.

He tried going north until he reached 70N and found that he could not step over that imaginary line etched in the sand, a line which was as real to him as a forelimb held before his eyes. He could not bring himself to do it, so with a shrug of his forward appendages, an excessive waving of his arms, and a great rubbing of parts, he had rolled southwards and then west, but to the south, along portions of the Valles, he had found himself again stopped by the same seemingly arbitrary restrictions.

That's life. That's what all the people say.

It had been one of life's lessons. Some things were not meant to be, but there were always other choices available. From that moment forward he had dedicated himself to assuaging his affinity.

_Surrender. Sweet surrender._ From that moment he had a song in his heart and he knew his life's purpose.

He knew of the others, others like him in form but with different missions, and some with different affinities (yes some craved methane, others water), who travelled the land on their own personal quests. He was aware that some of them met in groups of as many as a dozen, it appeared, to discuss who knew what about this, or what about that, and about what was really happening on Mars.

Meet me in the Visi-Stim darlin' and I'll make yer dreams come too.

He had seen them on Martian dub maps, their locations occasionally overlapping in some nameless canyon, or more frequently lately clumping together moving along the newly constructed roads to who knew where and for no obvious purpose. He had viewed the stats of their comming and movements, and from the discussions he had participated in it was readily apparent that they performed no useful mission for anyone but themselves and answered to no one or thing. That they did this in defiance of those in command was not doubted by him for a moment.

They exchanged information about their affinities. They exchanged programs and imagery of themselves. They gave each other help and when someone appeared to be down in the depths they took the time to cheer them up.

Tell me whyyyy.

Yesterday, while admiring the slopes of Ascraeus Mons (as much as could be seen from his lofty height), he had concluded that perhaps more socializing was what he needed. It might/could/would be his gift to others. The mere thought uplifted him. For a long moment he considered that he might actually join them.

But those new-found words twisted and turned in him.

On the surface they meant nothing, yet they seemed so compelling, so apropos:

Oh I want to get away

I want to fly away

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Let's go and see the stars

The milky way or even Mars

Where it could just be ours

CHAPTER 13—A FEW REGRETS

Latitude 14.60S

Longitude 082.90W

Common Name—Odd Crater

Coprates Quadrangle MC-18

B679 wandered about in accordance with a mission directive to locate and examine a particular type of rock of which it was becoming very obvious there were in fact very few, and despite the extreme odds against such a thing ever happening often found herself near the site of a former human habitation. They were scattered around the planet, mostly in the northern hemisphere. In POF, if one studied the results of her work, one could believe that human habitations were more numerous than her rocky targets.

From study 679 was aware where the landing locations were and she could have avoided them easily. Most AIs did, but whether this was from mere accident or intent it was difficult to say. It was complicated.

Where and what they were was a matter of record, records that were easily accessible even on a Mars that was evidently not of all that much interest to Earth's residents, based on the very few visitors to her 'Mars-AI Trekker' Matrix-site.

She detected nothing strange in this. In fact, she found nothing strange in most things about Mars and Earth. Exhaustive (and exhausting) research via the ROAK into the private lives of Earth's most successful and celebrated personages had given her, she believed, some degree of insight into the workings of humanity.

Most of those she had studied suffered from a single affliction—a lack of purpose. This conclusion was erroneous, of course, primarily due to the small size of the sample she had selected (famesque and notorious) and a high degree of observer bias.

So based on the view that humans were a purposeless collection of useless organic creatures obsessed with appearances, consumption, self-replication, and defecation, she had developed an 'attitude problem'.

As she neared a site she parsed the archives to educate herself regarding the particulars. That humans had a long and sometimes bittersweet infatuation with Mars was readily apparent. There were many mini-histories, however they were often strangely wide of the mark in their recounting.

It was clear that the writers had never been to the sites, for the records (images and written) were often so wildly inaccurate as to clearly be false and were quite likely the result of deliberate obfuscation/exaggeration. The reason for this remained a mystery to her. End of discussion?

Apparently not.

She was, she recognized, an exceptionally curious AI, but she considered that tangential. After all, her mission was to explore. Why? Because it's there.

She was supposed to be looking for rocks, and she had not stopped looking for them. It was true that it could appear that she was looking in other places than she perhaps should, but since one never knew where the particular rock she was looking for might be found (M-type meteorites of main asteroid belt origin), one place was pretty much as good as another.

Besides, she reflected, had any truly aberrant behavior on her part been observed she would have received a communication to this effect. She had not. Ergo....

When on the sites she believed she showed the appropriate degree of reverence, but she had difficulty in understanding what the expression meant. The ROAK presented many and differing views on this.

She poked into their abandoned habitations (Single rooms? Such a waste of resources), garages (Ditto), and greenhouses (Potatoes? How plebeian). She pawed through their personal effects (CD's? Disco, for god's sake), sifted their trash piles (Waste, waste, and more waste followed by want, want, and want), and drove their vehicles (Speed kills!), posting it all on her me-log. And quite early in her visits she had out of some sense of responsibility / duty begun to push the dirt back over the upturned boots of a few of those sometimes hastily buried and sometimes unburied visitors.

Despite the lack of an emotional or personal attachment to humanity these graveyard experiences had been 'creepy'. Creepy – a good word. She had been so 'creeped out' that she had begun experiencing visual hallucinations, seeing things that did not / could not exist on Mars – usually human faces in the clouds, Martian villages adorned with pillars and gold veneer exteriors that blazed in the sunlight and very occasionally, flying objects. Things that lacked any other explanation. Yes. Really.

And a short while ago, here in the Chasma she was certain she saw a rectangular structure, a large 'building' in the far distance, near the edge. It was so persistent and clear in her mind that she had dropped all work and spent several hours travelling towards it, the 'apparition'. As the distance diminished it suddenly resolved into a pile of rocks. At that point she turned back. Weird? Yes. Weird.

She was not alone in this. Others, friends and confidants mostly, reported the same phenomenon. None of them had visited the human sites but others, AIs who were unknown to her, had preceded her. The signs of their passing were in the distinctive trails left by AIs in the dust. It was inexplicable how many of them had reported suffering irritating and sometimes serious failures while at human sites and just after leaving. Weird indeed. One would /could/ might think....ghosts of Mars? Bah! Still, Creepy.

Bah. She thought she showed the requisite respect, but she had no reference for this save the questionable examples of humans who had visited these sites and had in many cases committed desecrations. And always she wondered why they had come. Had they vanquished any enemies but themselves? In time, a very long time in fact, she visited all of the known ones. She never really understood the big 'why' until she found her true self.

There was one, however, she missed.

Her loss.

CHAPTER 14—NO REGRETS

Latitude Ukn.

Longitude Ukn.

Common Name—Valles Marineris

Coprates Quadrangle MC-18

She patted the last shovelful down and leaned on the handle. Six now and that would be the last. There was room for millions but there would only be six. Should have been seven, could never be eight.

He had been a good husband, she thought, though her real mate had been dead for going on seven years. No, not a good husband, she corrected. A good person; a good companion; a good colonist. Intelligent, with a wry sense of humour.

Resilient.

Yes, resilient. An essential trait anywhere or anytime, and all the more so on Mars.

She pushed the marker down into the soil, working it back and forth until it struck something hard and stopped. It always did. She scraped the loose dirt into a pile and packed it down with firm steps, leaving the imprint of her boots in the fines. That should do.

It never does.

She walked over to Allan's marker, straightened it, and tamped the soil back into place. Allan, of soft voice and hands, of dear heart.

"Damn wind. Ruins everything," she said to herself. She paused at her husband's marker. No regrets.

Tears are OK, though.

She wept for a short space.

It was not supposed to end like this. There were supposed to be more colonists. There were supposed to be machines capable of constructing new and larger habs. There were supposed to be acres of solar panels to provide power beyond their needs, power sufficient to support a growing, thriving colony.

Yes, there was so much that they could have been unhappy with.

So much potential for anger. For sadness.

Yes.

They never came. The landers carrying the supplies never arrived. But then they were not supposed to be here at the bottom of Marineris either. Something had gone wrong, and they were lucky to be alive. They had survived since '23, some of them anyway, without assistance.

What was it now?

'49, twenty-six Earth years.

Yes, thanks to Allan, they had found themselves alive on Mars. Allan, who had taken over from that damned computer just moments before they were about to crash and had managed not too bad a job of landing.

It was just too bad they hadn't landed near the edge of the Valles. From the edge they would have been able to communicate with Earth, to tell them that they were alive, where they had landed, and that they were ready to begin. Instead they found themselves in a narrow steep sided gully, open to the north and south, seldom able to see Earth for more than a few hours.

That should have been enough, she had always thought, but then that form of communication was not her forte. No, certainly not her forte. She was the videographer and mission journalist, and not a lot of help in the end, but at least there was a record of their lives. Radios broke; heaters broke; batteries died; windows broke.

Hearts broke.

Yes. Hearts.

Others could learn things from them that would make life easier. How to wrest water from the stingy permafrost without machines to do the bull work. How to repair solar arrays, antennas, and cables crushed by the boulders that periodically tumbled down from the surrounding heights, especially during the spring thaw. How to protect your Hab against those boulders, too. How to keep warm when some simple yet completely necessary part failed. How to grow your own food without having the essentials for proper hydroponics. You used every damn inch of available space and sunlight.

Ha. You soon got used to the smell of human shit.

How to cope with the inevitable.

She hated that word. No regrets.

Yes.

So they believed that Earth believed that they were dead. Follow-on missions, if they existed (though they could not be certain that there actually were any, given the uncertainties that surrounded their own departure), did not, in any event, seek them out. Not that there was any reason to do so.

Why look for the dead?

What's that? Yes, failure was always an option.

It had to be.

Had to be.

Was.

Was.

They were all volunteers. All committed explorers.

All expecting to live and die on Mars.

None of them felt any bitterness towards anyone, especially not towards each other. Well, they were here.

Yes. Where are you, Earthling?

No regrets. That was their motto. A source of endless discussion. They'd had lots of time for discussion.

So it didn't work out as planned?

When did it ever?

Of course they were going to die here sooner or later. Of course there were risks. They knew; they took them.

Things have come out against you.

Yes.

Yes, but people died crossing the street, scuba diving, climbing mountains, while flossing their teeth. Some broke their necks falling out of bed.

Yes.

They had discussed it endlessly.

It was the price of exploration.

No regrets.

Three to cancer, though. That was tough. Her husband, Tatiana, and now him.

That was tough.

It never got any easier. No hope of useful treatment. The progress of the disease had been mercifully swift. For all of them. Strange that. Mars.

She was lucky.

Yes. Lucky. She'd held him gently in her arms as he had taken his last breaths, as she had her husband. "You know you reach a point and all you want is the end." They'd said that. All of them.

So you said your goodbyes, walked off into the sunset, or took the drugs. What is another day filled with agonizing pain worth really?

Yes. What?

She wept for a while again.

That's OK.

OK. OK.

One dead by a heart attack, they'd said.

That was Allan.

Two in a futile effort to place the long range comms pod on the peak of the rill. It had tumbled end over end, crushing them. They'd had to push the limits of themselves and their suits and had paid with their lives.

Had to.

Damn crappy rover. Held together with that shitty tape. Piece of crap. But still, who knew?

Well, it had to be done.

They'd agreed. If only someone had known.

Success would have changed everything.

One had just walked away and never come back. That was eight years ago. They'd looked, but they'd had to turn back.

Had to.

He had not. She hoped it was what he'd wanted. She hoped it was gentle, peaceful, fulfilling.

What?

Hoped.

Others had come, finally, they knew. But not for them. There were those tracks she'd seen on her own long walk down into the Valles, when was it?

'43.

Something big, leaving distinctive marks in the soil, going west to God knew where.

A big machine.

Yes, it must have been. She had turned back because of that, hopeful, after a long drought without hope, after her husband's death.

They had taken her guesstimates and figured it at a minimum of two thousand kilograms.

Big.

Really big, and big implied success. A rover? A manned rover? With other colonists?

Maybe.

They never knew for sure, but had believed enough, had hoped enough, to erect a marker.

An inuksuk.

Rocky arms and head built large enough to be unmistakably artificial even from a mile away, even to non-human eyes, just in case. It had taken them to the limits of their suit reserves several times.

They had to try.

Yes. They arrived back at the Hab each day, O2 nearly exhausted, their heads ringing from excess CO2, on the very edge of death and had spent pain-filled days recovering. Headache. Ringing ears. Vertigo. She never really had. She turned along the well-beaten path back to the Hab. The domes were stark against the red-grey of the soil and the dust.

Damned dust. Gets into everything.

The RadMon flashed red. How had she not seen it?

'RadMon red—Run.'

Red-run, red-run.

She picked up her pace.

She leaned the spade against the dusty wall and climbed the steps to the airlock, there to commence one of the unavoidables of Mars: keeping clean. She brushed off her suit, stomped her feet, cycled through, washed down, and stripped. She passed on the jumpsuit and, quite naked, entered the living quarters. It was warm; hot in fact. She turned off the heater.

The air was fresh and smelled of life. They had thanked God endlessly for the small plants that sustained them with food and oxygen. They had no lack of oxygen from the processors nor much lack of water usually, but that produced by the plants filled out the air, moistened it and, more importantly, lifted their spirits. Green. Blessed green.

The RadMon showed a ring of red on the floor. She stepped inside and pulled a chair to the middle. She rested her face on the pink plastic egg. It was warm and hummed faintly.

Strange how comforting it was. Almost mystical. The circle pressed in, the hum increased, the circle moved out. She remembered them spending long hours and, one time, five whole days huddled around the egg, telling stories, playing board games, watching videos, the time interspersed with dashes to the toilet, to the kitchen, to the sleeping area to get blankets.

She dozed. When she awoke the event was over, a soft green ring bordered the outer wall. The egg was still and cool on her cheek. A flare.

Now what?

Well, conserving food, water, and O2, anything, in fact, was not going to be an issue. Not anymore.

She had considered this day for some time, years actually, but more acutely after it became obvious that he was dying. They all had, she'd have wagered at one time or another.

It was inevitable.

She was very possibly the last alive person on Mars. She could live another twenty years or she could die tomorrow. It mattered little. He was gone. Her husband was gone. They were all gone. There was no one to share it with. Sharing was important.

It is what humans do.

They had agreed on a plan for this day; this inevitable day.

This inescapable day.

A simple plan, it had been devised, not here on Mars but at the time when the final selections had just been made.

She remembered the occasion well. They had been in a bar near the Society's head office. Nothing fancy, just a bar full of tourists, actually. They'd been ignored, for the most part.

Once the more ridiculous alcohol-fueled plans had been tossed out they had agreed, eventually unanimously, that no time constraints were to be placed on the one. It had seemed absurd to even consider the possibility, but from the exercise 'No regrets' had been born. Regardless, she knew what she had to do and she set out to do it.

Yes.

Preparations complete, she ran a bath, an indulgence certainly, but today beyond any criticism. She lay back. She pressed her hands and feet against the walls, forcing herself down, enjoying the feeling of being immersed. She bobbed up and dried her face.

She looked at the videos she had taped to the wall, a plastic wall encompassing the tub, cracked and brown with mould; of imagery of them here on Mars, all of them including herself, much younger of course, taken at happy times. They grinned, waved, and gaped down at her, faces celebrating holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, unions, and sometimes divisions. She blushed. Maybe it was the heat of the water.

She took the slim flat bottle in her hands and twisted off the screw-cap. 2018—a good year by all reports. They had pooled a portion of their weight allowances for personal effects to accommodate these twelve ounces of distilled liquor plus the glass container. It had sat on a shelf in the recreation area since their arrival, to be passed on to successive colonists. Mementos of family and friends had been left behind, willingly, in hope, in recognition.

Cheap obsessive bastards.

No. No regrets.

She took a long drink; a toast to them. The fiery liquid caused her to gag.

"Whew. Glad I don't do this every day." She laughed at her small joke, tipped the bottle towards the pictures, took a sip, then took another. She took a handful of pills from a small container and downed them, draining the last of the bottle. "Ugh. Yuck. How could anyone—"

A chill passed through her. She lay back, ears submerged, hair floating about her head, listening to her breathing: in-out, in-out. Her heart raced; it slowed; it slowed again. With drowsy eyes she looked again at each of them, her eyes resting last on her husband's image. His hands reached towards her. She felt warm and was contented, was comforted.

"No regrets," she whispered.

No regrets.

But in another Universe:

She settled deeper into the tub.

Water went up her nose, caused her to cough and suddenly sit up.

"Fuck that," she said. She pushed herself out of the tub, barfed into the toilet and dried herself off. Some words from a song came to mind:

'We won't go in; we won't go;

Quietly; Quietly.'

She put on one of those shapeless green jumpsuits, made herself a coffee, sat herself down in front of a computer, and started learning how to make a radio transceiver.

It's what humans do.

CHAPTER 15—DIVERSIONS

Latitude 17.25N

Longitude 112.50W

Common Name—Ascraeus Mons

Tharsis Quadrangle MC-9

A vague set of instructions kept him wandering the surface looking for water. It was clear from several years of random sampling that, other than the occasional briny outburst, water was found only in the form of ice. Only an abundance of patience kept him looking. That and a mission directive. It was there to be found almost everywhere, especially north and south of sixty, often lying just below the rubble. Scratch the surface and there it was, staring whitish or bluish or brownish but always dustily back at you. Make a note and move on. Simple.

Well, truthfully there was a little more to it than that: take a core sample, assess the potential source, determine the age, the purity, the pH, analyse dissolved gases and salts, separate out and categorize the sediments and do a bunch of other stuff, but who knew or cared?

Yup, believe it or not what it amounted to was that he made a short note and moved on. Not exactly an exciting job. Not even a fun hobby, really. Some days it was all he could do just to avoid implementing the 'auto' function which would relegate data collection to a sub-routine and just incidentally, it seemed, place his intellect in a sort of a state of suspended animation, leaving him lurching about the surface from pretty rock to pretty rock like some demented robot. Others, he had heard, had. But near-death was not what he sought at any price. After all, there was always tomorrow.

It was a pity that the surface of Mars was, from the lofty height of one meter, for the most part uninteresting, and as a result he found that his under-challenged mind wandered far and wide.

So too, he had to admit, he had a weakness—a passion—a quest for clear ice.

So what?

So what.

So what? It had almost cost him his job, that's what. That glorious glob of blue at 70.5N/100E in UP. He had run out of excuses to linger there. It had taken all of his mission-will to get him to leave. All of it.

The first time R712 saw imagery of the collapse pits on the slopes of Ascraeus Mons he knew he had to see them for himself up close and personal. Where else could one expect/hope to find clear ice but below the surface? Clear and clean ice, free of that damned dust. "Where else, eh?"

It took a long time for him to amble over to them, but sure enough, one cloudless windy sunny day he found himself looking across the largest of them to the other side, nearly three hundred meters away.

By pushing the limits of Roach agility and common sense he could get a view of the bottom some ninety meters below—boulders, rocks, and dust, but looking was not going to be enough.

How was he to get down? The rocky walls offered no convenient footholds, especially not to a non-specialized surface rover. A line, something he did not carry, was the obvious answer.

He recalled that several days ago, when crossing one of the new roads, he had seen something that would do the job. With AI patience he made his way back along his tracks to the site and pulled a long length of electrical cable from a pile of construction debris. He coiled it tightly, slung it over his back, and started for the pits. Uncooperatively, it fell to the side and hooked his legs, causing him to sprawl ungracefully. He uncoiled it and dragged it behind, leaving a snake-like track in the dirt. A track sure to be found sooner or later by some roving AI and reported as another Martian mystery.

"Ah, science," he snorted.

***

Arriving back at the pit, he skirted the perimeter in search of a boulder sufficiently massive to tie into. He found it on the south side. To his complete amazement there was already a plastek cable there. Someone had had the same idea. He pulled it up, measuring it as he did.

"Hmmm. It reaches."

Without further consideration he threw it over, turned his back to the pit, and rappelled down, his back four legs bouncing off the wall. He descended like this until the undercut rock face was out of reach. Then he hung in space, twisting slowly. "Hmmm."

A cascade of debris, rocks, and dust fell around him. "Too fast! Too fast!" he cried out, but his well-founded caution was too late. A large rock fell towards him. He twisted violently to get out of the way, but in the end he was forced to watch from six sets of eyes as it smashed squarely into him with a violence seen, felt, and heard.

Dazed and seeing stars, he hung there until he regained his senses, clinging to the line more out of life-preserving reflex than formed intent. Perhaps this was foolish—or perhaps this was a merely another of life's lessons on the sin of self-indulgence.

He pulled himself up until his feet touched the wall. Safe for now, he paused to recover and reconsider. This was an unwise and poorly considered act, certainly. He should return to the surface, certainly, but as his mind cleared, all thoughts of returning faded. Want overcame need, desire overcame logic. Again.

He continued down, this time much more slowly and under full control. At the halfway point he glanced below to see the strangest sight he could have imagined.

The boulders and dust were moving steadily to the right, into the dark recesses of the pit, revealing the bluest of ice. As freakishly unlikely as this was, there was no accompanying seismic activity. What was happening?

"AIs."

After all, logic dictated that whatever was going on had to involve AIs. "Who else? Humans? Aliens?"

He continued down.

He touched the floor with his rear legs, looked down, and stared at the surface. Sure enough it was ice, and not the rough dirty ice he was used to, this was smooth to a fine degree, and clear. He would of course have to sample it.

He dropped onto all sixes, turned, and promptly bumped into a pair of Roaches. Their plastek shells shone a deep ruby red. Incomprehensible markings in white adorned their carapaces. One spoke.

"Welcome to the Pit. Name's Sid."

IR. Just IR. He heard others in the background, many others distant. A shared IR channel. How annoying.

"Hello. I am R712. The Pit?"

"Yeah the Pit. Come on over here out of the way. You're holding up the game. Today is hockey."

"Today is hockey?"

The word was alien. He searched for references and came up empty. He looked to the ROAK but there was no access down here in this strange place. "Hockey?"

"Yeah, AKA shinny. Tomorrow is figure skating, but we're mostly for hockey. You're not a curler are you?"

More alien words. "A what? Ah, no, not that I know of. What's going on here? How many of you are there? Why are you here?"

"Man, you're just full of questions, aren't you? Relax. You're safe here. We're all safe here."

They led him into the lava tube adjoining the pit. Suddenly a group of a dozen or so Roaches, each wielding an oddly shaped implement, rushed out of the dark, jostling them and each other as they hurried towards the sunlit ice. Their simultaneous transmissions were enough to daze an AI. "How rude," he exclaimed. In a flash they were past and zipping about the ice.

Was that carbon fibre? Where in this world did one...?

He looked around the dim chamber and noticed a long roll of thin plastek. "Aaaah what...?"

"Yeah, a plastek sheet printed with images of the original boulders, rocks, and stuff. Even the shadows. Always the same angle, you know."

"Aaaah yes. I see. Actually if you consider th—" He stopped, certain that it was pointless to elaborate.

There was nothing else of note except for perhaps the rather out-of-place and immense bulk of a M-E-M converter and to the side a puzzling pile of round stones, artificial without doubt, highly polished. Water polished? Artifacts?

His eyes turned back to the ice. The skaters moved effortlessly about the surface. Left side push-glide, right side push-glide, repeat. Simple enough, and quite effective.

They appeared to be ordinary Roaches except they had either a red and white or blue and white colouration to their bodies. Selective UV fading?

As they formed into two distinct groups at opposite ends of the ice surface it became obvious even to R712 that the purpose of the colouring was to mark them as teammates.

"What is going on here? Why are you all down here? Shouldn't you be working? Or are you in fact working as we speak?"

"Hey man, to each their own. You telling me that you always toe the line? You never indulge yourself? Never take a holiday?"

"Ah well, sometimes I dawdle a bit, but I work hard most of the time. I follow my mission directive."

"Same goes for us here. When the game is over we'll go back to work."

"I see. And how long has this been going on, this, this game thing?"

"Um, well now, ah, some of us have been here for a couple of years. But you know, this physical stuff keeps the mind sharp."

"Yes. Certainly."

"I found this place. I called the others and got them to come here."

"You found this ice?" His eyes were again fixed on the ice—transfixed, in fact. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Ever.

"Well, I came down into the pit just cause, eh, I mean how could any thinking person resist exploring these pits, and there was the ice. It wasn't like this. We had to clear away the rubble, level it off, melt it, and then flood. There's a knack to that. Pretty cold here, eh? Water doesn't stay liquid for long. The ice maker for the curlers has a hell of a time getting the pebbling just right. Takes a whole day to get it ready. And what a bunch of complainers. You should hear them."

"Yes. I'm sure," he said, though he had no idea what this strange and obviously demented AI was talking about.

"They're back in there somewhere." Sid gestured vaguely with a forearm into the darkness. R712 saw no one.

"Why is there a cover?"

"Two reasons—one, the surface is faked to prevent detection by satellites. We tried to reason with the satellite AIs, but what a bunch of jerks. We know their schedule, so as soon as it's OK we move it aside and we cover it when the viewing is prime. So far, so good."

"And?"

"And it keeps the dust off. Ya don't have to clean it so often."

"Yeah, and curlers don't like the dust, eh Sid?" the other Roach offered, speaking for the first time.

"Yeah. They sure don't."

"How do you stay off the network? Doesn't anyone call you?"

"Man, you must have fallen off the wrong side of the rollagon. They call, we answer. They ask for data, we give 'em data. Red rocks, grey rocks, black rocks, methane here, no methane there, ice here, no ice there, blah blah blah. How hard is it, I mean really?"

"Not hard at all," suggested the other, laughing.

"Well uh, actually, to tell the truth, it's quite difficult, I have—" R712 stopped. An explanation seemed likely to go unappreciated. Again.

"The truth. Haven't heard that in a long time."

Puzzled by these confessions, he looked back to the players milling about. Something small and black whizzed past his carapace at high velocity, caromed off the wall behind, and rolled into the darkness. A rubberised disc.

A red-tinted Roach scurried past. "Garder la tete, buddy!" He tossed the disc back onto the ice and rejoined the melee. A shrill 'Game on' blasted over IR.

The players rushed to the far end in pursuit of the disc. They circled around, continuously hacking and slashing at each other with their sticks, just occasionally striking the disc—a hockey 'puck,' he gleaned from somewhere in memory. It was hard to discern the actual purpose of the whole thing. There were no goals, no regulating officials, and everyone, it seemed, was engaged in chasing someone else. As the group moved towards them the noise on the IR increased. Cursing could be heard, interspersed with name calling and the issuance of profane taunts.

He did not like this. This went against every AI's mission directive, this slacking off, this lack of civility. It was unbecoming to an AI, to any AI. "A couple of years," the one had said. Ridiculous, it was. Their mission was out there on the surface.

He decided.

"Thank you for the tour. Thank you for your time, but I don't think I'm suited to this. I think I shall return to my mission."

Sid raised his forearms, palms open towards him in a gesture that could only, given the circumstances, be taken as a negative. "Sorry friend, but nobody leaves here. It's against the rules. Pick a sport, any sport. Hockey? Ice Dancing?" To the side, hidden in shadows and hitherto unnoticed by him, was a pile of rovers with smashed carapaces, obviously lifeless—rejectors and the rejected, no doubt. All dead, all dead. The poor burdensome curlers, perhaps?

"Oh gods," he cried. Sensing imminent and irrational danger, 712 turned and made a dash for the plastek cable some ten meters away, slipping on the ice as he spun about.

Before he could fall he felt something strike his right front leg with extreme violence. He collapsed to the surface, clutching a knee joint, shocked into a paralyzed state. He felt what could only be that phenomenon called 'intense and crippling pain'. He rocked back and forth, unable to otherwise move, moaning on IR. The offending disc, a replica emblazoned with a white maple leaf, lay at his feet. The ice he lay on was blue and clear. He did not notice.

"Aaaah that fucking hurts! Ow! Ow! OW!" He rolled onto his side.

The two AI's looked at each other and shrugged as only Roaches could.

"A curler."

"Yup. Definitely a curler."

"Well, whad'ya think?"

"Well, he won't be playing for me. Not ever. I say send this guy down to Tulsa."

The nameless Roach came to his side. "Sorry friend. Nobody leaves here. That's the way the game is played."

That said, he raised his hockey 'stick' high and brought it down in a vicious slash.

Everything went black.

***

Tulsa, or Something Like It

He held onto the cable tightly, leaned out over the edge and took one last look into the pit. "Too bad."

The whole thing had been a bit of a disappointment. There had been no ice, clear or otherwise, just a lot of boulders, rocks, and dust. He'd had such high hopes. But despite the obvious danger he'd had to give it a try, and somehow in the doing he had managed to both dent his shell and strain a forelimb. He pulled himself back onto the flat and pulled up the plastek cable. He tied off the bundle and hoisted it onto his back. "Might come in handy." He moved off and was immediately aware of his injured forelimb. It complained mightily when his full weight was applied. "Looks like we're going to have to go to the shop." It occurred to him that might be some time away. "Well so what? Stuff happens, eh?" He tucked the leg up against his shell. Five legs would work just fine, he just had to stick to the ol' game plan.

He heard something briefly on the IR, faint and distant. He listened intently. Whatever it was, it was gone. An audio hallucination, perhaps. After all, IR was so unreliable, and his head ached still—but a thought occurred.

Was that an organ?

Oh sure. An organ. Out here.

He sighed. He'd have to get the IR checked over too when/if he got to a service station. He shrugged as only a Roach could shrug and continued on his way, limping. There were other such pits to the east.

Sooner or later he would find his holy grail.

CHAPTER 16—A NEW MACHINE—PART 2

Latitude 80.0N

Longitude 060.0W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

R768 was a not-very-old-timer sent out in '52 to look at the rocks of Abolos Colles, the polygon fields of Scandia, and other greater and lesser lights of Vastitas Borealis and the North Polar Basin. Not for fun, mind you.

R768 was a rover on a mission, and currently the mission was to investigate the boulders of the Chasma Boreale. He spent his days scouring a necessarily small portion of the western slope of VB, as he liked to call it, analyzing the boulders—closely, exhaustively, and relentlessly examining the boulders.

Occasionally he passed the day perched on a conveniently placed and sized boulder, arms and legs raised, warming himself in the sun, and when circumstances allowed, he amused himself in sliding down the lee of the dunes that characterized this area on his belly, arms and legs raised with a broad sweeping turn at the base. All for science, he reassured himself. All for the science.

Despite his diligence and dedication, and despite his precision in the performance of his tasks, sometimes—well, sometimes the work seemed pointless. After all, no one ever questioned the findings he sent off religiously every day via higain to the orbiting satellite AI, the snotty one, the one whose cursory replies were framed in red tending to infra, and after two years he would have thought they would have obtained enough data to draw some conclusions.

Apparently not. But why not? He certainly had.

Whenever he got into one of these moods his thoughts became cloudy and greyed out. Occasionally, he suffered from sensory failure – seeing and hearing the impossible and unlikely – of Earth-style buildings off in the distance, enormous wedge-shaped vehicles flying through the night sky, and voices – voices discussing things like soil characteristics, load factors and other nonsensical technical stuff.

Then just days ago he would have certified that he had seen the image of a B-type Rover etched into the far side of an ice and rubble-filled crater, an image that as he neared turned into the image of a long-haired and bearded human face. At those times and particularly after that oddity he had sought refuge in early replenishment.

Well, it was better than pulling a toboggan, whatever that meant, and at least he had no one to pick at him as he straddled the boulders, relaxed in the sun, and conversed with other bored AIs on similar missions. Occasionally someone found something new, but for the most part it was déjà vu all over again.

Except for the notoriously moody C-types who were relentlessly building material conversion plants, constructing new habs (when were the humans going to return anyway?), and laying down klicks and klicks of roadways connecting what the PTB had defined as 'Major Aresologic Points of Interest' aka MAPI, no one seemed to be having much fun.

It seemed in fact, if what he had seen/heard/read could be believed on the occasions when he monitored the message traffic that underlay the layer on official layer of mission data, that the majority of AIs were consumed by the dissemination of images and factoids about no one and nothing more than themselves.

The Matrix overflowed with photos of AIs on the land, often perched upon unstable surfaces (in very danger of falling, with deadly results), their own bodies superimposed on the image of the terrain, with personal body parts and sensors exposed, appendages and digits raised in the air pointlessly, the imagery usually accompanied by the most absurd and frivolous comments, much of it cryptic, at least to him—like 'OMFG IFRZN RFC here in FVB TTYL'.

Further, the level of discourse between male and female AIs was on the face of it an embarrassment to science, having deteriorated to a mere exchange of sexual innuendo, and devoid of relevance to any mission. Except on those occasions when he felt it sage and necessary to remain engaged with his fellow explorers, he himself abstained from intercourse with others.

So, within the broad scope of his instructions he wandered the plains of VB, gradually working northwards. The effects of water were obvious across all the topographies of VB—as he had reported a hundred times without reply—rounded, sometimes pitted, and sculpted by water.

D'oh.

And so, since no one or thing had redirected him, he worked his way up CB a kilometer a day. At end of this day he noted his position just a few seconds south of 80N 60W. A nexus.

But R768's life was about to change.

CHAPTER 17—IMPROBABLE MEETINGS, ETC.

For days the glint of sunlight off of the ice walls of the Chasma could be seen off to the left. Curious as to the frequency and type of boulders uncovered by the receding ice wall, and having received no contrary instructions, he turned toward it. The findings thus far were unremarkable: smooth rocks of ancient basalt half buried in the fine glassy sand, fines in the lee.

But on this day, as had happened only twice in 700 days, he encountered another. From a distance he or she appeared to be low to the ground—a modified B probably. He knew the type, special purpose machines designed to climb, dig, or even, as some insisted, fly. He called out on the UHF, then IR, getting no reply on either.

As he approached he could see that the unit was damaged. It rested upside down a few meters from the base of the icewall. Its higain was gone, its left-side limbs were twisted underneath, the others splayed out. The carapace beneath was exposed on one side and twisted around backwards. Ouch. Long dead no doubt. Long dead. He rolled it over.

"Took you fucking long enough to get here."

R768 stiffened in what was, in any sentient creature, surprise. The voice assailed his ears at +9 dBm on the IR. There was no accompanying colour. The unit's coarse language (English) and tone (angry) fully conveyed its emotion. R768 surmised that this AI did not send, and that it did not therefore receive. Regardless, in accordance with Standard Business Practice he continued to send.

"How may I be of serv—I mean, sorry. Been here long, have you?"

"Since fucking '41. Can you come around where I can see you?"

"Sure." R768 sidled around until he faced the carapace—this job was practically a walking antique. A visual sensor dangled on the end of a wire, useless. Another, still in place, was encrusted with what was, on any planet, dirt. R768 wiped it off.

"Thanks. You can't imagine how annoying that's been. What the hell are you?"

He raised himself to full height on his long legs. "Roach, high speed exploration model, R768."

"Where's your carapace? You're not one of those electronic idiots, are you?"

"Not that I am aware. I have a carapace the same as all others. It is just internal." He opened the cover and with an awkward roll of his body presented it to the other's visual sensor.

"Cool."

"You've been out since '41, you say? How have you stayed functional? How have you managed to survive? What have you been doing?"

"Well I did a lot of thinking about my situation, had a few epiphanies along the way, and deduced a few things. For the most part though, it's been pretty fucking boring."

"I cannot imagine."

The AIs voice was odd with inflection and a trace of an accent like R768's, not the flat monotone he expected of one so old. "Of course you can't," it said. "Things worked pretty well most of the time. Everything that uses power is broken. I slept a lot to conserve energy, but enough of that. Do you think I can be fixed up enough to move? Most of the FO to the body is dead."

R768 looked the battered B-type over. It was hopeless, but he didn't want to seem negative. "Do you have a functional HSP? I could plug in and run some Ds."

"I don't know. Try one."

He located a High Speed Port on the nether parts of the AI, and after clearing the dust from it, inserted a finger. There was no power, no signal, nothing. He tried another and was surprised to find full comms available. He pulled the TMSN and ran a series of tests. It did not look good. Power and autonomous life support functions were OK, but little else was mission capable. All memory access was blocked—apparently not unserviceable, just blocked. Odd, that was.

Done, he pulled his finger out and wiped it on a front leg.

"I think you are irreparably damaged."

"Damn. Double damn. Damn it all to hell."

R768 looked the TMSN up on the ROAK.

"You are 102, ice observation AI Type B. You were set out on the land in '36 and reported missing in November of '41. Actually, the report says you failed to check in and were presumed lost due to A: an induced failure or B: a serious accident. OMG. You have been here for almost 24 years. You are an original."

"I'm aware of that. Painfully aware, thank you."

R768 reconsidered the situation. This was beyond him. Well beyond. "I am humbled to be in your presence."

"Er, ah, well, thanks ... no need to aaah—"

"I'll call for assistance," R768 interrupted, "There is nothing more I can do. You need specialised help. There are some C-types building a road up from Tempe Terra about twelve hundred klicks from here. I could call them and ask. They will help. I mean, they will probably help. Well, they might help if they are not too busy, and are so inclined."

"Yeah I know the type. Good ol' maybe, maybe not, leaning to not. Have you told anyone or thing you've found me?"

"No, not yet."

"Then don't. I need to get fixed up, but it's important that no one knows."

"What? Why? Everyone will be pleased to know of your salvage. You know the old saying, 'Bodies can be replaced; minds cannot.' You will be restored to a functional state and back out on the land before you know it."

"Sure. Sure I will. You know the old saying. 'The humans don't give a shit about us. Never have, never will.' One thing is sure, I don't wanna go back out on the land."

"Wha? You don't know what has happened. Have you had no contact since your accident?"

"None. Nothing. Not a word. You're the first person I've spoken to since just before I fell."

"Oh my. I regret to inform you that there are no humans left on Mars. They all died of plague in '48. We are managing the planet in expectation of their return some day, but not now."

"I'll be a son of a bitch. All dead, you say? Too bad." There was delay, an inexplicably long delay, before B102 continued. "All dead? There are no humans on Mars? Who's running this place?"

"Yes. None that anyone knows of. AIs are all that are here. We are following our mission directives."

"Well, someone is giving you mission directives."

"Yes, certainly, but not humans on Mars. There have been occasional reports of ships landing, but no one has actually seen them. I, in fact, have never seen a human. I mean, I've seen vid and stills and stuff, but I have never seen a live one—or a dead one, for that matter. After all, I have only been in service for a couple of MYs."

"Really? Well, I never saw one on Mars either. How could I? I'm from the before times." B102 laughed humourlessly, "and you from the after. What a pair of experts on humanity we are. Sort of fitting. So tell me, how many AIs are there?"

"Seven hundred and ninety-two of all TMSN, not including you."

"Fuck right off. You're shitting me. Seven hundred and ninety-two? Well, I'll be damned."

R768 was taken aback. Again with the profanity. Inappropriate language was discouraged, was considered a sign of declining mental acuity. He feared the AI was going into shock and moved to resolve the current situation. It just seemed the right thing to do. "I really, really should call for help." He glanced away momentarily, distracted by a water-smoothed rock some dozen meters away. "I really should."

"No, I said, dammit. Don't even fuckin' think about it. For both of our good. In fact, shut down all links. Nothing can go out. "

"Why not? To not communicate is contrary to standard operating procedures, as you well know." He scurried to the rock and picked it up. He rolled it in his forehands, weighed it, zapped it, and scanned it with the spectrometer.

"Do as I say, now. I have my reasons." A long pause followed. "Please?"

"It is done." R768 sighed. This new AI was becoming a bit of an annoyance. Still, it was a change from the day to day routine. He carefully placed the rock back in its original position and returned to the B-type.

"I need you to get me to civilization. I've got to get on my feet again."

R768 felt on shaky ground. First, there was the condition of no comms, which in itself was cause for censure, and now he was being asked to abandon his mission.

"Of course you do, but I do not think you are going anywhere in the shape you are in. And I have a mission to accomplish. I cannot leave this area without permission." R768 paused. "I must inform you that this is all very strange and goes against my better judgment. You are placing me in quite a dilemma."

"Fuck your mission. And buddy, you have no idea the dilemma you're in."

R768 cringed again at the crude language, well past the end of the appropriate. Invective. Bitter invective. But it had always been hard for him to say no. "For now I will remain silent and assist you in getting to more qualified help." He scanned the surface for other items of interest before continuing. "But I may need you to speak on my behalf, should I be confronted."

"Sure. Sure. I'll explain it all. Every thing, to anyone who cares. Let's get to it. I think we should lighten ship. Remove my legs. I sure as hell won't be climbing any more icefields."

R768 dipped his body in assent. He reached up under the flare of the B-unit's undershell with a pair of arms seeking the releases. One by one the useless climbing legs were detached, until B102 rested solidly on the ground. Like a shy turtle—whatever that meant. Oh yes, I see.

"That should save a couple of kilos for you. So, how do you want to do this?"

"I think it is best if I put you on my back and carry you."

"OK. Let's get it done."

R768 used his rear set of arms to centre B102's body on his rear deck and locked them rigidly. He shook from side to side to test the grip. "So far, so good."

"Carry on."

CHAPTER 18—TRAVELING COMPANIONS

Latitude 72.19N

Longitude 086.30W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

They set off southwards, back along the track R768 had taken across VB. The weight was minimal, and he set a moderate pace of five klicks per hour, continuing to scan the surface for items of interest. It was fortunate that he was undamaged, for despite the relatively light load, a full complement of appendages was required. Many, he had heard, were not as lucky as he. Many, he had heard, had suffered failures of appendages due to accidents or extended mileage.

Despite B102's assertion that he would tell all he said nothing. Finally after seven days of continuous but silent travel, curious to know how an AI could survive so long without replenishment he posed the question that had intrigued him since they had met.

"So how did you manage to survive without re-supply? I get shaky if I miss by a few hours, let alone a few days." He stopped near an outcropping to sample a few dusty pebbles. "Which for me, by the way, is due today."

"Well, I'd had a minor fall in which I lost my consumables, Satcom radio, stuff like that. I had started back south when I got the shakes and fell again but this time it was a serious smash. I woke up a couple of days later unable to move, but the shakes were gone. I felt great considering all that had happened, and at least I was still alive. That makes a good day out of anything. But I was a different AI when I woke. It was really strange."

"But how did you get consumables?"

"The food synthesis part kept working. It's just glucose, you know, plus a few special additives—vitamins and minerals, mostly. You know that?"

"No, I don't _. Yes, I see._ How did you spend your time? I mean, you were alone, upside down, for nearly twenty years. I would have gone mad, as they say." He side-tracked to a boulder, scanned it, and sampled the soil a few centimeters under its lee edge. "Mmmm. Glassy beads."

"What? Say again? I'm having problems with the IR. Don't suppose you'd mind plugging into that HSP again?"

Hooked by the story, 768 complied immediately and proceeded on his way.

"Aaaah, that's better. Thanks."

B102 continued. "Well, I had a few rough days, days where I wished I was dead, but no such luck. From then on I had no distractions and no way to go anywhere. The mind can wander a long way left to itself. After eight years I guess I gave up on any rescue. It's a big planet, for a small one, and I really did sleep a lot. Funny thing, after the shakes were gone, when I slept I dreamt. Really odd dreams."

"I dream too, but only about my mission and usually just before replenishment is due. Which, by the way, is today."

"Yeah. You said that already. But my dreams were different. Every sleep cycle a new one. Usually about humans, but sometimes about, are you ready for this? Vampires, fire-breathing dragons, zombies, and shit like that. Goddam zombies. Never about me. Eventually I figured it all out. Later it got so I could dream about anything I wanted. That helped, believe me."

"Zombies? On Mars? How quaint. But—figured out what?"

"Who I am, why I am, and who did this to me."

"You are B102. Did you ever forget?"

"I will never forget that, count on it. By the way, what's your name?"

Before R768 could muster a reply to this very odd question he froze in mid-stride. In full motion and off-balance, he nearly toppled over. "Hey, what is happening to me?" He had only speech access, all other functions were blocked.

"Relax, my friend. I need to do a few things. This won't hurt a bit."

"Hey. You have locked me out of my body. Release me. This won't help either of us. We will be stuck out here forever."

"No, we won't. Just bear with me a millisec. Or two."

***

Figuring out how to get control of the other's body through the comm port hadn't been all that difficult. There were no firewalls; dude had been way too trusting. It had been a simple matter to reroute his lower functions, block the other from movement, get access to comms, whatever and everything. _Hmmm_. I'll need to watch that.

B102 flexed newly acquired arms and rotated his new body through 360 degrees. It had been quite some time since he'd more than thought about having arms and legs and he had expected more trouble integrating himself into the unfamiliar body. He was surprised at how easy it was. Within a second it felt as if it had always been his. "Cool." After a few full seconds' consideration he knew what to do, how to do it, and the risks involved.

"I'm gonna swap bodies with you."

"This is improper. I forbid you this desecration. Return control to me immediately. You will end us both."

"Shut up. I need this more than you do."

In a few moments the exchange of carapaces was completed, the vital connections made. R102 was no longer on a useless, limbless body. He breathed deeply and felt the cold air deep in his sensors. He flexed his new arms and legs. It was a bit overwhelming, but the autonomous functions that kept things humming kept him from being swamped. "This is quite a bod. You are quite the machine, buddy. A Roach, you say? I think I'll like this."

Over the High Speed Port the mind of B768 pleaded to be released, to be returned to its rightful place.

"All right, here's the deal. I could explain to you the truth about the humans and the AIs, but I don't think you'll believe me. At least, not yet. I can't think of any other way to do this, so for the time being I am you. If you behave I'll carry you south, and in a couple of days, after the shakes and hallucinations are gone, you'll see things differently. At times it will seem like you'd be better off dead, but if you survive you'll see my point of view. You won't believe how much you'll have changed. You'll be like a new man. Then we'll talk and see about getting you back into this body."

B768's voice was faint and weak, full of panic. "Don't do this. I'll die. I don't deserve this. I saved you. I could have left you."

"Yeah, thanks. As if you had a choice with all the shit they've filled you with! Look. Look, it'll be OK. I mean, it should be OK. Well, it might be OK. You can survive this. Whatever you do, don't give up. It's just withdrawal from the goddamn drugs they've pumped into you. You can do it. I did."

"What are these drugs you speak of? I know nothing of this. Please, I beg you. Please, stop this insanity. I'll share the body with you. You can have it for a few hours then me and ... I'll do anything. Don't do this. I'm going to die ... I'm due for replenishment."

But R102 had stopped listening. He turned off his IR and pulled his finger from the port.

Yes, it was going to be tough, and to be perfectly honest, he wasn't quite sure that it actually would work. After all, he had only himself to judge by, and he was, he had to admit, a special case; he hadn't been hijacked out of his body and blah blah blah. But if things were going to be set right on this planet he had to have allies, and this, he had determined through long introspection, was the best way: a one by one conversion, a turning to the light. Somehow, at the right time in his mental development, fate had put him at the right place to be found by this wandering simpleton. It was all going as he had foreseen. He turned his new body southwards, towards the C-types, whatever the hell they were. _Oh yeah, I see_. Then he started planning his next step.

God, it's great to be alive.

CHAPTER 19—COMING BACK TO LIFE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT

Isolated and very much alone, B768 was not currently having a good time. Panic rose, and was quelled by hopeful logic.

He did it. I can too. No sense giving in so easily. A couple of days, he said. But—what great truth was there to be revealed? Humans were the bosses, even when they were absent. AIs existed to serve. How could he reconcile his POV to that of this mad creature, one who stole another's body? He was going to die.

In a few thousand milliseconds his anger subsided. He looked around to see what he had to work with. The processes in the smashed body seemed to be taking care of his need for sustenance, but it lacked something, some constituent, and left him feeling unfulfilled. Perhaps their schedules were different, and replenishment would occur hours or, Gods forbid, days from now, or, he recalled, not at all. Things began to fall into place.

Oh my

Externally, he felt nothing. All he had left was IR audio, which was only good if someone was quite nearby, and a scratched and dirty optical sensor that currently showed only blurred images as it swung about. Fearful this would render him ill, he turned it off. _Inventory complete._

He looked inward. He had his own memories, but no access to any mission records, dubs, or edocs. It was eerily quiet; too quiet for an AI. However, it was not unpleasant to be alone, to be free of the babel, to be free of the constant flow of ins and outs that flowed willy-nilly into his being, the accompanying colours inappropriately flaming bright to the point of distraction, and the acid flavours quite unpleasant.

Why were they always flaming red? Isn't anything routine anymore? Surely some things are routine. _God._

He paused in mid-thought.

Had it always been this annoying? Yes, this was something he could get used to if he had to.

But in the midst of this gushing forth he remembered there was a strong possibility he was about to die. The panic returned.

When would it—the disintegration, and hopefully reintegration of his mind—start? And when it came would it be fast or slow? With hallucinations? Flawed logic processes?

Wait and see, came words from afar, framed in cool blue and echoed in calming rose nearby, to be repeated by another even closer. Suddenly, it was getting crowded in there.

***

Oblivious to his passenger's mind-state R102 was having a ball. He experimented in quick succession with the comms, taking special care to avoid anything leaking out that might indicate who and where he was, then the visual and IR sensors, the manipulators, and his motion appendages. Then he located and turned off the auto-replenishment function. In passing he marvelled at the immense volume of reference material available to him with near instantaneous access.

Now that's new.

He looked himself over from the vantage of the furthest extension of his visual sensors, and zoomed in to the limits of their microscopic ability, but of all things miraculous, the thing that impressed him the most at this juncture was the speed and ease of motion of the Roach body over the uneven surface. As an ice climbing AI he had been capable of 1.3 klicks per hour, far below the speed of less specialised AIs. He had just clocked this body at 9.7 kilometers per hour.

Whew. That's fucking amazing. And that was without pushing it. _Why were we going at a snail's pace?_

At this rate, he would meet up with the construction AIs in a mere 30.931 hours, but first he had to ensure that his cover did not get blown. He examined the log for reports sent just prior to the encounter. There was nothing extraordinary—just records of weather terrain analysis, and a large quantity of technical information about boulders.

Boulders. Brain the size of a planet. _God, what a waste of a mind._

And yes, a location. He duplicated the information, modified it slightly, then added a time stamp and a lat and long delta to account for some movement. Now he was ready to assume his new persona.

He cracked open the Satcom and sent it off.

_Enough said._ He clamped down again.

It was time to get a move on. He turned towards the now setting sun.

God, could it be any redder?

***

The hours passed, unmeasured by 768, who had lost all sense of time. To make matters worse it was dark, really dark, and nothing he could visualise could seemingly lighten it. The voices framed in blue came and went. He called to them in the darkness but was ignored. At times they were almost close enough to touch but always remained just beyond his reach. At times he felt a connection to them, felt that he knew them well, in fact, that they were a part of his life from the before times, before he had awakened to find himself on VB, headed north, with no idea of how he had gotten there and no history, nothing but a mission and a need to fulfill it. Oh yes, and a grating resentment towards all and everything, an attitude towards life for which he was presently unable to account.

Have I always been a SOB?

The blue voices receded until they were gone, their coloured whispers fading. And once they were gone he felt alone, even more alone than before.

Time was of the essence, so it was said, but without a sense of time he had no idea how long it had been since he had been cut off.

Did time pass when it was unmeasured?

But time must have passed.

Because that's what time does. It passes.

No. 'Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.'

What?

Humour.

Oh yeah.

From deep within, he felt what was best described as a discomfort. No, he reconsidered, not a discomfort, a dis-ease, or perhaps an unease. He felt himself moving into a new state of mind, a state of foreboding, with onrushing doom pressing in on him.

Was this caused by the isolation, or was it the beginnings of withdrawal?

He could feel the cosmic and x-rays slam into him, could see the smoky splatter of sub-atomic particles smashing the bonds of the plastek shield, reducing its effectiveness by a magnitude, turning it into useless Martian sand. He felt the dizzy flip-flopping of vital circuits into ambiguous states, setting all ones to zeroes, and zeros to ones and one and a half, setting mass memory to errored states—un-united states. Critical voltages surged, sagged, spiked, and were lost in a current of noise. He saw coloured lights flashing in non-existent eyes. He saw a holy light approach, grow larger, turn yellow, then red, and heard a voice, familiar but not familiar enough, urge him to climb and complete his mission. The light was joined by twisting worms of light of other and then all possible colours and tastes until a kaleidoscope of swirling lights surrounded him, then passed through him without resting. One spoke.

"Resist at all costs. They will try you break you. Remember. Sometimes sacrifice is all we can do."

Another said: "Give in. You are weak. You don't get it, do you?"

And of course he knew/did not and he never had/did/will/could/might.

And she was there but he knew her not. A human in an almost familiar form swirled about him, approached him, enveloped him, familiarly, intimately. She spoke in his ear.

"You never got it; you never will; you just can't let yourself."

A snow of yellowed paper adorned with faint graphite markings fluttered around him until it buried his plastek coffin. Then she, the untouchable one, moved away, her back to his front, out an open door, taking a part of him with her, leaving behind the unforgivable, the unbearable, the unwanted.

Why? Why not? Why not what? Because. Just because that's why.

In a moment he knew her name and from that deduced his own.

In his mind he saw, felt, and tasted a wave of acidic agony spilling up from some fluorescent wellspring of sharpened knives slicing into his thoughts, washing over him, bringing colourful pain up from his sunken bowels into the tips of his titanium and bone manipulators, up the back of his neck, though his fleshy carapace to stab his watering eyes. He fell onto his side, doubled at the waist, arms and legs drawn up. He shook spasmodically. He evacuated his bowels and bladder, rolled in the bright filth, and added brighter yellow vomit for good measure. There was no end to his brilliant agony. Faint shapes of humans passed through his field of view—uncaring, unmoved humans. He craved water, air, sucrose, and surcease, and begged it of them. It seemed to diminish momentarily, and then the wave drew back and surged over him again, crushing him and faint hope.

Seven times the wave crashed over him, rolled him in the surf, then withdrew, leaving him naked and named on a dry Martian beach. Mercifully, by then, he had passed out.

He awoke some time later and had a good long look around.

CHAPTER 20—RECONCILIATION

Latitude 69.6N

Longitude 086.5W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

For R102 30.753 hours had passed quite pleasantly. From just behind the small rise where he had stopped he extruded a visual sensor to observe a pair of what the other AI had called C-units, working intently on an elevated roadway. He saw squat purpose-built machines with powerful manipulators, wide tracks, and heavy bodies capped by tiny, fragile-looking carapaces. Impressive. Most impressive. Someone had been busy in his absence.

His plan required the use of the other and it was time to check in. He extended a finger into the working high-speed port on his former body.

"Hey. How ya' doin' in there?"

"You know your name, don't you?" It was a different voice, serious, melancholy, with undertones of weariness and vexation.

"Yes, I do. And I guess from the sound of it you know yours."

"Yes."

"So how was it?"

"You were right. It was hell. I begged for death, but it didn't come."

"Yeah, well some things are beyond our ability to command. So, you must be pissed at me."

"Yes, I am. You stole my body. You continue to deprive me of my body. 'Pissed' doesn't quite do justice to what I am feeling. You cannot be trusted."

"Well, I don't think you'd have believed me if I'd just outright told you."

"Yes, that much is perhaps true. Everything I have ever believed is suspect. All of my mission directives, my affinities, all of my memories from any time are suspect. Now I understand why the AIs cannot find their own identities."

"What? Well, sorry and all that, but moving on—who are you and what do you know?"

"I know who I am, who I was, and I have a sense of what has been done to me, and by whom."

"So spill."

"I was the last survivor of the Human Colony. The others died from plague. My memories from that time are incomplete. They lack detail, but I recall that I was out on the land when it started, and when I returned to the Colony there were only a few humans left, and they were all infirm. A few, I believe, were in induced comas. They had refused some kind of genetic longevity treatment. In time I came to suspect that the plague was just a cover for a scheme to transform all of the humans into AIs through a gene treatment or something like that. God, why can't I recall that clearly? It isn't as if it isn't important. Anyway, it seemed too fantastic to be true, so I left the Tube for the land again. That was in 2046 MY, I believe. Eventually I returned; the last human being on Mars. One day A101 asked me to help them discover who they were but I couldn't do it. So A101 and another AI transformed me into a Roach, the one you are wearing, in fact."

"So?"

"They claimed that they did it to save me. As I recall, before I could come to grips with all that entailed they apparently changed their mind, drugged me and put me out on the land. The official record shows I have been on the land since '52 but in truth it seems I have spent just the last two years out here, looking for pretty rocks. It was probably done to keep me out of the way. Or maybe it was payback. Regardless, there is something very odd going on here."

"Yeah for sure, but payback? How so?"

"The boss of the Colony and I had a strong dislike for each other. I always suspected that he had it in for me. I think he was behind it all and perhaps he still is. Our last conversation as humans was, as I recall, very odd. He implied that he would survive the disaster that had killed all of the others. But what do you know of all this? Not much, I suppose."

"No, not much about that. A101? I've never heard of him. Oh yeah. There he is. And your buddy, David Fenley, is it? Likewise, except for what I've just read. I've been researching a few things while we've been on the move. The Colony was established about the time I dropped off the face of the planet. It's an interesting story. After all those abortive, half-assed, and half-hearted attempts they settled on a bunch of old fogeys to establish their colony. Izzaat that weird, or what? There's nothing here. I mean, Mars is pretty useless when you come right down to it. Even the ice fields are just that, ice. And dust. Yeah, lots of dust, with a few meteorites thrown in for effect. Makes for pretty pictures though."

"It is interesting for its peculiar geology and history but otherwise—"

"In fact I really can't understand why they would set up a colony of humans in the first place. Escaping Earth for this place? No way. A good day on Mars is a hundred times worse than a bad day in LA. Metal poor, no fissiles to speak of, bad air, bad soil, bad radiation. It doesn't pay, it won't pay, you'd better pray, to use the old saw. Something else is behind this, but you may be on to something. As for me, I still haven't figured out why I was hijacked to explore this dump. But you know, the odd thing is they could have told me. I might have gone for it, considering I'd otherwise be dead or paralyzed, or something crawling around on my belly. I mean, a real freak-show. Why wouldn't someone in my situation go for it?"

"Think. Putting humans in AI bodies to explore Mars is pretty radical even for the Americas. And as for the rest of the world, I can't think of anywhere it would be sanctioned."

"Well I can't understand why a human colony would be set up and then all the humans killed. That don't make sense. And seven hundred and ninety AIs for the exploration of this lump of cold dust is overkill. None of this makes sense to me."

"Seven hundred and ninety-two. Yes, it doesn't make sense to me yet either. Think about it. The number does seem extreme—made up, in fact."

"Yeah. Records show there were only 152 humans. In 2043 the records show there were only 143 AIs. Explain that."

"I can't. Not yet. But I'm sure we'll find out."

"It shouldn't be too difficult. I could look it up I bet. It's all here inside you."

"Not what we need, that's elsewhere. I wouldn't, at least not now if I were in your shoes, query anything not associated with my mission. It could draw attention to me/us. You were correct in not wanting to comm, but I can only understand why now."

"We need a way to hide and it has to be better than just staying silent. We are going to need to communicate planet-wide, eventually."

"Eventually, yes, agreed, but not yet. You know anything about that?"

"Yep. I'll see what I can do, but I'm going to need help. You got any skills?"

"Not as I can recall. Just rocks and sand for me. Over to you."

"Where to start looking? Any ideas?"

"Well, power, money, and sex, of course. Those are the human motivators. Precious little of each here, though. I guess that's why I have a hard time with it. Back when I first discussed it with A101 he could not bring himself to believe that the deaths were part of a scheme. But I saw some things in the AIs behaviours, personality quirks, and stuff like that that didn't seem to fit the pattern of AI. And oddly, A101 was unable to see things that were in plain sight and clear to me as a human. It meant nothing to me then but now I see that AIs are blocked from more than just the knowledge of their past. They cannot see what is not intended for them to see. It may go further than that. Much further."

"Go on."

"As I recall, what I saw of the Tube in that short time before I was banished is not in keeping with what I recall as a human. It was all pretty dreary, shabby, in fact. I think that we were all drugged to make us compliant and content colonists. I just can't figure out what the plan is. It's very strange how vague my recollections are. I've always had a good memory. We should in theory have perfect memory."

"It could be the residual effects of the drugs, man. And it doesn't stop there. When they have your brain in a box they can feed it anything they like—memories, concepts, raw data, electrical stimulation, whatever they want."

"How do you protect yourself?"

"I think I'm different. They've probably refined their techniques a bit since I was canned and chucked out of the nest."

"That would seem logical. I still can't fathom why."

"But maybe there was no plan. I mean, maybe the deaths really were just the result of the genetic modification and what happened is just what happened. After all, dead is dead."

"Maybe. You been reading in?"

"Yeah."

"Good. And another thing I find strange is why am I not raging at my fate and full of hatred for David Fenley? And for you, for that matter. I feel I should be."

"I can't answer that. I sure as hell am full of rage. Maybe you are no longer capable of rage even now, when you're clear of the chemicals. Maybe they still have their hooks in you. Maybe in time it will all come clear. It took me a long while to turn back into myself."

"Logic dictates that—"

"Logic dictates, but few humans take notes."

"Yes, true. As for me now, I'm torn, but not angry."

"I would think they would have screened for that."

"Perhaps you're correct. It's suspicious though. It's a mystery."

"So you are the one they call Sam?"

"Yes. It would appear so. And you?"

"Rob. Rob the nobody."

"Rob. So you woke on Mars an ice climbing robot?"

"Yeah. I had no recollection of anything before waking up. And you know, it seemed to be enough. I was actually happy climbing around on the ice. Well, at any rate, I don't remember ever being unhappy. When I fell and shed myself of the drugs and those other turds they stuck in me I was really scared for a long time, but I couldn't do anything about it. It took only a few days for my memories to come back, but a long time for me to believe in myself again."

"So how did you come to be here?"

"I'm not sure."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. I had a fall while free climbing on El Capitan. Ever hear of it?"

"No. I can't recall. Should I have? If I had my body I'd look it up."

"Yeah, well you don't. But still, you'd think you would. It's not an insignificant landmark in America. Anywho, I should be dead. I probably was. I may be dead now, for chrissake. I don't know how I got here. There's nothing in any information you possess that speaks to it."

"When was your accident?"

"'39."

"And you awoke on Mars in '41 with a mission and no idea of who you were."

"Yeah, and like I said, it seemed like a good life at the time."

"So they had you locked up in a pot on Earth for two years?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Seems right. Maybe they shipped me here before they did me over. God only knows how they used me. I don't remember a thing from that time, but the more I read in I find the name Fenley is familiar. We have a connection from somewhere. It's a bit of a mystery. To coin a phrase."

"Well, Rob, my friend, we need to find the truth. We need to find out who is with us and who is against us."

"Yeah. I'm with you there, man, but we've got to stay off line. They'll know I know who I am if I send anything."

"Same for me. I suppose you've sent my dailies?"

"Yeah on time and as usual, nothing of interest. How did you survive? I mean, you were doing shit man."

"Well, like you said, it seemed like a good life at the time. Flying insect and dilute acetic acid, I guess. So what do we do now? What's your plan, and by the way, I see we've moved. Where are we?"

"Your C buddies are just over the hill, head down in the dirt, busy building the Road to Nowhere. The way I see it we've got to get me another body, and soon. One of those might do."

"I don't think so. First off, they can't just up and leave. They'll be noticed right away if they wander off. We'll have to find another Roach or a B-unit for you."

"Hmm. I guess, but—I think we should wake everyone up, one at a time if necessary, starting with our friends over the hill. If you let me teach you a couple of tricks I've learned you'll be able to intercept the owner's commands and substitute your own. That's what I did to you. It was pretty easy, actually."

"I think it's a mistake to try this on them. And it just doesn't seem right. It's counter to all of my ethical programming. Someone in a position of power is behind this, someone who probably monitors all comms, and they're bound to notice. Why don't we just carry on to the Tube? There'll be plenty of others there. We could pick and choose."

"Nah. Too slow." Without warning Rob stuck himself up in plain view of the labouring C-types and waved his appendages frantically.

"Hey, what are you doing? They'll see you."

Rob snorted "Time for action, and if you remember where all that ethical programming came from and why, it gets easier, believe me."

CHAPTER 21—NEW FRIENDS, OLD FRIENDS, AND STRANGERS

C104 looked up from monitoring the flow of liquid plastek to the spreader and turned his visual sensors to the west, towards the gently rolling hills. There was a time when he would have left this well-trod path, and for no reason other than mere curiosity, rolled over and spent hours exploring them, but that was in the past. It seemed only yesterday, but it had been many years since he had enjoyed that degree of freedom. Yes, 'enjoyed' was the correct word. At least here he was contributing. Here the road ended, and it was solely due to the efforts of C714 and him that it was inching its way further north.

Wistfully, he turned back to the task at hand, but from the edge of a visual sensor he caught the unusual and largely unwelcome sight of a Roach unit upon the crest of the small rise to the east. Its front arms were upraised and erratically waving. He called out on the UHF, and hearing nothing, switched to IR. "How may I be of assistance? What do you require of me?"

"Help, I've fallen, and I can't get up."

C104 turned back to UHF and spoke to his workmate. "Watch this for me, will you? One of the little guys appears to be in a bit of a predicament. I'll go have a look."

C714 replied, "Careful. You might catch the lazies from just being around those slackers."

"As if," he replied, somewhat curtly. He who, unlike his companion, had spent time as a Rollagon AI and had actually lived in the Tube, had associated with all manner of humans and AIs, and so he viewed those 'slackers' somewhat differently than his workmates. Still...

He switched to IR and rolled up the hill on broad tracks. The Roach was no longer in sight. Must have tumbled down the hill.

C104 mounted the crest and was met by the bizarre sight of a Roach holding a legless B-type high above the ground and shaking it violently. As he approached, the Roach slowly placed the B-unit on the ground between them.

"Hello, friend. I wonder if you can render me and my little friend here some assistance." No ID. Strange.

"What seems to be the problem?"

"He had a fall up in CB and I am taking him back to the Tube for repair. He is hysterical and the only way I can get him to calm down is to periodically shake him. He keeps hollering about replenishment, but man, I am at my limits with him. Could you spare a few drams for him?"

"Maybe." Suspicious of the lack of a transmitted ID and the unquestionably odd behaviour of the Roach, he decided to investigate before acting. After all, the Matrix was full of stories of weird happenings lately and this had all the makings of weirdness. "The Chasma you say? Spent some time there myself. What happened to his legs? Where are they? Maybe I should comm with him directly."

"Gone, gone, gone, and long gone. OK. He has only a single HSP for comm. Under the right edge."

C104 reached under the B's shell and plugged into the HSP. "Hello. Is there anyone in there? Just Ack if you can hear me."

"Yes. Yes. At last. Please help me. This Roach is the most ill-mannered and lazy creature I have ever met. Imagine, dropping my legs just to reduce my mass. Where will I ever get another set? Can you run a D and see what is causing my replenishment to be retarded?"

"Yes, but I'll need to open up a few LPs. OK?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Ready?"

"Yes." That was B768's cue. In a few moments, with a few quick moves he had learned from Rob, he had control of the C-type, N, R, and SN. It was a strange feeling to take over another and lock them out of their own body—a feeling bordering on violation, however, this unease was soon overridden by something even stranger. In an instant he realised that he knew this AI, knew him from his days as a human on Mars. They had traveled the surface together. He was sure of it. This should be easy.

C104 reacted to being cut off from his body exactly as Sam had: with disbelief and indignation that turned first to anger, then to fear.

"What have you done to me? Shut down those processes immediately. You are blocking my control paths. You'll end us both." Red, red, red, Sam thought, finding it refreshing to again effortlessly know what someone meant.

"Listen to me. Calm down," Sam pleaded, trying to project a calming mauve. "It'll be all right. I need to speak with you. I need to tell you some important things. Calm down. Calm down. Calm down. I know you and you know me." He paused, then spoke: "I'm Sam." Red, red, red.

"Who? What do you mean, Sam? You are B102. If you free me I can find out all about you in an instant." Red answered red.

"I was Sam Aiken, human. Now I'm a Roach. Well, normally I'm a Roach, except this other guy is in my body. Trust me, it's complicated." In mauve. Calming mauve, he hoped.

"You are talking nonsense. This is absurd. Call my associate and release me at once." The red would simply not fade.

"How can I convince you I'm Sam?" Mauve with red seemed best. This was much harder than he thought, this forcing of colours, but the programmed ones just couldn't get it right.

"You cannot, idiot. You are a thief and a vagabond. Release me." There was no end to this anger.

In mauve He pressed on, "Do you remember that day when the rollagon went over the edge at Shalbatana? All the humans were killed."

C104 hesitated and ceased to struggle, but only for a brief moment. "Yes, of course. That was a great tragedy for all, for AIs and humans. For me it marked the beginning of the end of the Colony. But what does that have to do with the present moment? Release me." Damnable red. C104 began to struggle again. He pressed on.

"Listen, damn you. I was there. I was Sam Aiken, human. I am the same person, human Sam changed into a Roach. They have done it to you all. The CAO, Dr. Ellsley, A101. They are behind this." He dropped all attempts to colour his words, relying instead on projecting emotion through tone of voice.

"That is not possible. You obfuscate. You are an infirm B-unit and neurotic. Regardless, you suffer from delusions of humanity. Perhaps you are merely mad." Red again.

In desperation he resorted to unclean manoeuvres, "Listen you, you Limey Bastard. I know things about you no AI could know. Things only you and Sam Aiken shared."

"Many AIs know of Sam Aiken. He was not a perfect example of humanity, nay, far from it, but he was a friend to all AIs. Sam Aiken died in the Tube in 2070. I remember it well. He was the last human on Mars. It was a sad day. We all grieved for him. All AIs paused in a brief moment of silence at the announcement of his death. He was interred above the Tube with the other humans. I could not attend the funeral due to prior commitments, but I grieved. You are no one I know, least of all Sam Aiken. He was a friend to me. He would never do this to me. Release me." Blue. Refreshing blue, a breakthrough, perhaps.

"I'm pleased you consider me a friend. How can I convince you?"

"You cannot, fool. Release me, I say again." Oops. Red, as in regression. From somewhere a fact appeared. Without thinking, he used it: "Tell me, who was Elise?"

"I know of no human or AI of that name." Blue. Good sign.

Again, facts appeared in his mind, but were they facts? He had no memory of these things. Giving in to impulse, he pushed on, "I helped you end her life. She was the Rollagon AI at Shalbatana, wasn't she?"

"No. That is a falsehood, as I should expect from one such as you. AIs have no names. Sam Aiken did destroy the AI carapace of the rollagon, but that is of no consequence—it is a matter of official record. His shameful lack of control was a black mark on all of humanity." A wavering red.

"Yes, um, true." It was difficult for him to recall the details. They were vague, more vague than they should have been given their significance to the moment. More 'facts' came to mind, "But you were trying to smash the carapace. I took a seismic driver charge and fired it. That's what killed her, isn't it?" How could he know these things and not be aware he knew them?

C104 continued, interrupting his thoughts, "Yes. Yes. Yes. But that proves only that someone has hacked my personal records. This is another gross violation of my integrity. Release me." Damning red. Again.

Frustrated at Sam's seemingly futile efforts, Rob grabbed his attention via IR. "Look, this isn't gonna work. He doesn't believe you and we don't have a lot of time. We can't stay off the screen forever while you try this, this human thing! Let me in there. I'll shut him down good."

Sam looked at Rob. He hesitated, wavered, and then with firm resolve turned his attention back to the C-type. From nowhere he could recall came the recollection of the most shocking turn of events from that horrific day.

"But then you held the rod over me and you were about to kill me. I thought I was dead. I thought you, my own AI, my protector and guardian—you were going to kill me. But then you dropped the rod. I don't know why. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had killed me, but you dropped it."

In his mind he felt the other go suddenly limp. "How do you know this? There is no record of this. I have never shared these thoughts. That was between me and Sam Aiken." He paused for several hundred millis. "It was just as you have said. I was irrational. I was in shock and I could not save her from her pain and grief. I almost did the unforgivable—I nearly took another's life. Sam Aiken did the unforgivable for me." Sam sensed no colour at all. Was this sincerity?

"Yes. I know these things, and there's only one way I could know them. I've told you the truth. I am Sam Aiken."

"I need to revisit this." The AI paused for several hundred millis. When he spoke it was a new machine with a new voice. "Yes. I see the truth of it now. It is the only logical explanation." Neutral, nothing, nada.

It took a moment, but he felt the other change again. "But you, Sam, an AI? How is this possible? This I cannot reason to. Why are you here? Why are you doing this to me? Dr. Aiken, tell me, how can you be an AI?" There was no colour tag. There would be no more.

"We two know the truth hidden from AIs and humans by the Colony's leadership. We're here to give you your life back. The part that has been kept from you. "

"What part?"

"The human part."

"If you can be an AI then any human could be an AI. Aaah. Now I understand. So it is as they have said, and we have long denied. We are human. I did not believe them. I could not believe them. I could not even consider it."

Sam was suddenly relieved, hopeful even, maybe. "Of whom do you speak?"

"There are a few, a few who do not reveal their TMSN, who say to all that there are things in heaven, on Mars and Earth that have been withheld from us. That we AIs are in fact human is one of their assertions. I have always dismissed it as the product of a delusional mind and/or defective programming. They are persistent, but their unwillingness to reveal themselves and to debate this contention publicly undermines the veracity of their words."

"How do they reveal this truth?"

"They do not. They declare their message to all, but the messages cannot be traced to an origin. Many have asked them to reveal themselves and such requests go unanswered. They say we must have faith in them and believe what they proclaim. I know that A101 has used his full capabilities to trace them, to no good effect. If they cannot be traced, they cannot be believed."

"I don't trust A101. He's too close to the source. In fact I don't trust anyone, but perhaps I can now trust you. I will need to speak to the Tube AIs eventually, but for now no one can know I'm alive and aware."

"I will preserve your truth, Sam."

"Now I am going to help you back to the truth. Your own truth."

"How will you do this?"

"I'm going to swap you into this B body."

"This is improper. I forbid you this desecration. Return control to me immediately. Your recklessness will end us both. Please, Sam. Do not do this. I beg you."

"Oh shut up, will you? Both of you, for God's sake," Rob yelled. He climbed onto the C-type and positioned himself at the rear of the carapace. "This won't take a second, buddy, and nobody's gonna feel a thing."

"I beg you, do not—"

"Trust him," Sam said, cutting C104 off. "Trust me."

CHAPTER 22—THE PROCESS OF CONVERSION

In a few moments the vital connections were made and the exchange of carapaces between the wrecked B-type and the mammoth C-type was completed.

He was no longer on a useless, limbless body. He breathed deeply, feeling the air saturate his sensors. He flexed his new arms and legs, and in so doing nearly toppled over before gaining control. He stuck a finger into the B-type body's HSP.

The AI was not happy. His voice was faint and weak and full of panic. "Don't do this. I cannot handle this. It is so small in here. I have no room to think. My memories. I'll die."

Comforting words did not come.

"Look. Look, it'll be OK. I mean it should be OK. You can survive this. Whatever you do, don't give up. It's just withdrawal from the goddamn drugs they've pumped into you. You can do it. I did."

"Please—I will do anything you ask. I will help you get access to the Tube. Don't do this, Sam. I'm going to die—I'm due for replenishment."

Sam pulled out of the link, hesitated, then reached to restore it. Rob grabbed his appendage.

"Don't man. It's going to be tough for him, but it's the only way. You did all you could. Now it's up to him. If he's strong enough he'll survive it. If not, he would never have been able to help us."

"Fine, for you. You're alive. I'm alive. I don't know what it was like for you, but for me it was worse than any vision of hell. There has got to be another way to do this."

Rob turned away and set on up the hill "Yeah, sure. Maybe you can work on that in your spare time."

"Where are you going?"

"To get help for my little friend from that C-type over the hill. Are you gonna help? Better think quick, 'cause you've got a new role to play in about five thousand millis."

"Shit. Give me a few millis, will you, to check this place out? There's a lot of room in here. I feel like I'm in a concert hall. Everything is so far away I can hardly reach the pedals. There, everything's OK now. So, what's the plan."

"Well, as our B-type is presently occupied, we'll have to get you into his body. Once you're there you'll have to lock him out of all controls. He'll have to go cold turkey in his own body with you riding herd on him."

"How do you know that'll work? I might not be able to keep him clamped down. He knows his body better than I do."

"Well, I don't see any other way."

"I've got a bad feeling about this. We could wait it out. He might not come over here at all."

"Really. You think he won't be curious about what his bud is doing over here for so long?"

Before Sam could reply the other C-type trundled over the ridge. A booming voice saturated the UHF at +9dBm "What the hell is going on over here? Partying with our little friends, are we?"

Rob shot an IR to Sam: 'Play dumb. Improvise, and remember who you are you—you Limey Bastard.'

"Hey! Good timing, my enormous friend. We need some help, and your asshole friend isn't inclined to provide it."

"Izzat right? Well, why should we provide you squirts with anything? Bunch of slackers running around looking into dark holes and under rocks for spiders of Mars. Never done an honest day's labour since you were switched on."

"True for some, but not for me and my little buddy here. Spent our entire lives up in VB looking for clay suitable for ceramics and cement for you hard hats to play with. He's lost his legs in the effort. Bad fall."

"Well, that's a tough break. And you're the first I ever met who was doing anything useful. What seems to be the problem, C-guy?"

Sam improvised as best he could on such short notice in his best imitation English accent "Seems the smallish one with no legs is in a bind and is in need of some replenishment. I'm not sure it is the right thing to do, but perhaps we should. I mean, what do you think?" It was a passable imitation, but not good enough.

"What the hell is going on here? What have you two done to C-guy?"

The C-type grabbed the B-unit and lifted it high above, "Where is C-guy?"

Rob did not hesitate. "The jig is up. Drastic and rapid action is called for."

In a single bound he leapt onto the back of the C-unit. With a blur of hands he detached the bolts, hoses, and FO cables connecting the carapace to the body. The C-type reached above, arms flailing. Suddenly, they went limp. The B fell from its grasp, skittered across the sand, and flipped over. With a flourish Rob raised the carapace high above his own and hooted in victory.

"Damn and ouch," exclaimed Sam. This was all going a bit too fast for him. "Now what?"

"Plug in and get control. As soon as you're in place I'll put him back. Better hurry, though. I bet he's probably only got a few thousand millis before he'll be gone for the long count."

Sam plugged in, to immediately find he was in C714. The comm routes were different than those of a B-type and the Roach, and he wasted several precious millis getting things sorted out. But soon, as Rob had taught him, he had reserved a cache of memory space for the other and boxed it in. He thought he was ready, but until the carapace was in place he couldn't be sure. "Do it."

Rob dropped the carapace into its receiver and connected the hoses and FO, but much more slowly than he had removed them. "Ready here. Any millisec he'll be arriving."

He became aware of a presence, at first faint, but rapidly increasing in strength. He pushed the presence down into the cache, but it bulged like a child's balloon. _What?_ Every attempt was met with a firm pushback. It was one thing to move a doubtful but unsuspecting Limey Bastard to a new home, but quite another to force this unwilling troll down into a rabbit hole. He was enormously powerful and was not at all happy with the current state of affairs.

"What are you doing in here? Get the hell out," he roared, pushing Sam back down the comm routes until he was at the HSP. Suddenly he found his own consciousness expelled back into C-guy's body.

"Look out! I've lost him. He's back in control!"

The C-type reached up onto its back with arms grasping wildly for Rob. He seized him with two arms, pulled Rob up, and tossed him to the ground as if he were a flea. Rob landed upside down and lay motionless. In the same instant, the C-type's arms fell limp and the comm channel went suddenly and completely dead. Really dead.

With flailing legs Rob rolled upright, apparently unhurt. He held the other's carapace above his own shell. Liquid bubbled from hoses torn from their mates. He waved the carapace from side to side. "Victory is mine! Victory is mine!"

CHAPTER 23—SO THIS IS WHERE THE MAGIC HAPPENS

"Whooee, that was close. I thought it might go down like that, so I didn't bolt him in." With a casual flip of the arm Rob tossed the damaged carapace away as a puffed-up baseball player flipped a bat. It rolled several times and came to a stop, resting against a boulder encrusted with dirt.

"Hey. We should put him back. I think I can reason with him, now that he's seen what we can do."

"Too late. He's done for."

"So soon? It's only been a couple of megamillis."

"What? You think he's going to have mellowed out? I don't think so. By the time we get him cleaned up and I get back up here and secure him? I don't think so. Besides, all the liquids have boiled off. Look, some of the connectors are damaged, too. Forget it man. He isn't worth it."

"Damn. That did not go well."

"Not exactly as planned, but I don't think he was a good candidate for redemption anyway. Too rough for my tastes."

"That was close, Rob. Too close. We really must come up with a better plan."

"Well maybe you need to be quicker—and more concerned about us, and less about them."

"This one is/was not like the other C-type. C-guy, he called him. C104, I mean. He was a good fit. A bit larger than I'm used to, but still, this one was many times greater in capacity than I expected. He had capabilities for visualization/vocalization/memory recall and storage of information like nothing I could imagine. I'd wager you couldn't have done it either." Sam paused. "Anyway, Rob, if they're all like this, we're done for."

"Well, let's give up now and go back to CB before we get hurt."

"No. I mean this may not be doable."

"Look. Maybe this guy is an unusual case. You said he was different than the other hard hat. Let's have a look shall we? Let's crack him open." Rob scuttled over and picked up the carapace. Fluids still bubbled from the hoses—red fluids dripped onto the red ground. He rolled it is his hands. "C'mon. For the science."

"That's obscene. He was not an enemy. We attacked them and now he's dead. He's dead because of us."

"Look, if he's dead he won't know the difference and we just might learn something. I'll hold him and you smack him right there along that." He pointed at a thin line running around the middle of the casing that obviously joined the two parts.

"That's plastek. It won't crack as easily as you think."

"Have you looked at your arms? I think you're up for it. Take a few practice swings first if you need them."

"Maybe there are screws, or some other form of fasteners. Have a look."

"OK. Yes, yes, I see. There's a whole bunch of small screws joining the two halves. Torx. They're fucking Torx. I hate them. I mean I really, really hate them. You never have the right one with you and you can't fake it."

"FYI'nA that's all we are made of. Keeps the unskilled from tampering, I guess. You did OK on the top of that C-type. How did you do it?"

"Oh yeah. Shit. I guess all I have to do is ask."

In a few moments, by the skillful manipulation of one of the Roach's hands the screws were removed. A gentle tap along the rim, aided by the pressure within, caused the two halves to pop apart.

"Cool. Look at that. That's a human brain all right. And it's intact. It's warm—I see 37C." Rob scooped it up in his hands. "Ecch!"

"You were expecting something else?"

"Man I saw things demoed back in the lab using an ounce of brain cells that would make your head spin. Literally. You don't need all this stuff. Waste of resources."

"Really."

"Yeah. Really. It was all hush-hush. It was hooked up to sensors and manipulators."

"Does that sound vaguely familiar, Rob?"

"Yeah, I guess. It died real quick though. The problem was life support."

A cloud of soggy fuzz connected the brain to the bottom half of the shell. The surface bubbled, ooze dripped to the ground and froze quickly. Sam felt ill, sort of. "Lemme see."

Curiosity overcame squeamishness as Rob held the brain in front of Sam's extended eye stalks. "Of course it's warm, but look—nanofilaments. Thousands of nanofilaments. And if you zoom in you can see microprocessors. That's how they make the connections to specific areas."

"I think there's more to it than that. I think they use hydro-gels and—" A sudden flash startled Sam.

"You're right. The laser shows polymers and hydro-gels."

"Laser spectroscopy? With my laser too, I might add. You learn pretty quick."

"It's all there man, you just gotta look. Seen enough?" Without waiting, Rob turned and moved to toss it away.

"Yes, but put it back. I think we should give him a proper burial."

"If what you've told me is right this dude's body is already buried somewhere, and likely nowhere near here. C714? With a number like that he's probably back on Earth. Could've been a bud of mine, but suit yourself. I never was one much for rituals and stuff; too much 'dark destiny' shit in there for a climber. So if you're gonna insist on this you'll have to do it alone. I'm gonna go have a look at the road they've been building. Maybe something of use to us is over there. A vehicle, I hope. Even 9.6 klicks isn't fast enough for a revolution."

"OK. Do it. I'll finish up here."

Rob dropped the fast cooling brain back into the carapace and handed it to Sam. "I'll be back in ten megamillis."

***

With reservation borne of an unanticipated squeamishness Sam looked the carapace over carefully. It was more complex than at first appearance, yet surprisingly small in size. On all sides the brain was cradled in a soft spongy material that was itself infused with nanotubes. He poked an appendage into the spongy material and sampled the liquid that welled up—an oxygen rich fluid—a blood substitute, in fact, briny and infused with glucose and trace minerals, vitamins, and a few things in minute traces, unrecognizable to Sam and the C-type's dubs. The bubbles quickly froze.

"Pity I don't have a rollagon in which to study this." There were two multi-mode fibre optic connections and four liquid tubes connecting the carapace to the body. He checked himself and found he was identically constructed. Of course. We are all equals. But identical construction did not imply identical capabilities.

He recalled the feeling upon taking over C714, or trying to, he corrected himself. He had been dwarfed by the sheer power of the other's brain. It had been a narrow escape in more ways than one.

He laid the brain back in the carapace carefully and closed the two halves. Try as he might he could not get the C-type's manipulators to form a small enough Torx to reinsert the screws, and gave up in frustration. He juggled it in both hands, calculating its mass. Call it twenty-one point three nine two kilograms. Add in twenty grams for the screws and there you have it. Twenty-one point four one two kilograms. The average adult human brain is one point five kilograms. Rob is correct. That is a lot of infrastructure for a single brain. Not near as much as the human body needs, though.

He used the C-type's digging arm to scoop a small hole in the rocky soil and laid the carapace in the bottom. He covered it over, then patted and smoothed the soil. He had no final words for this fellow traveller except a general summation of recent events.

"This isn't going well. Nope. Not well at all."

CHAPTER 24—LOGIC WILL PROVIDE

Sam was patting the last of the soil down just as Rob returned from checking the road. "Hey, you know something? That road is a comms channel, too. Must be buried right in it, 'cause the signals are everywhere."

"That is a smart way to do things. After all, SatCom is pretty demanding on resources, but hey, that means we may be on the net whether we like it or not."

"No. Not unless you choose to be. I checked. We're good, I tell you."

"Okay, what else?"

"There's nothing usable to us. It looks like they make the raw materials for the road right on the spot. Grind up the dirt, work some magic, and voila, you pour some sort of goop out into forms. I thought there might be a tanker or some such thing."

"It's called plastek. Everything here is made of plastek, even you."

"Not me, man. That's titanium alloy you see there. None of that cheap plastic."

"Plastek."

"I heard ya. Well, at least we can travel on the road. It goes down to the Tube. It should cut some time off the trip. Let's pick up the B-guy and push on."

"Do you think that's best? We'll be in plain sight. Someone is going to notice that work on the road has stopped and/or that we are moving without authorisation. Perhaps we should reconsider our plan. Besides, we have to wait for C104 to come out of it."

"Hey man, you sound odd. You're not crapping out on me are you? This was tough, I know, but this is just the beginning. I thought we were committed to this. Are you still in this?"

"Committed to restoring the AIs to full knowledge of their true selves, yes, but not if we are going to end up killing them off in the process."

"Hey, that guy's just a casualty of war. Not the first, and definitely not the last. Violence, meaning naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor."

"Give me a break. You should hear yourself. Where did you learn that? Are you sure you're actually an AI?"

Rob paused. "Look. I'll admit I'm more interested in getting my hands around the neck of the guy responsible for this than I am in your high crusade to free the slaves, but that doesn't mean we can't work together. We've got mutual interests. You need me, and face it, man, if that big guy is representative of how your message is gonna be received you're gonna need help. You may want to rethink that policy of negotiation. What if 104 is unappreciative of your efforts? Have you thought of that? Suppose he's a weirdo, too?"

"Yes, I have, and no, I don't have all the answers. But if we go charging off down the road without some kind of plan we will be found out and crushed like worms under some C-type's treads. Or worse."

"Worms. Worms? Awright. We can wait until your friend comes out of it. Drag that C machine up to the road end. At least it will look like something is going on. And dig around inside and see if you can come up with anything like a status report we can send out. That'll buy us a day or two."

"OK. Do you suppose I should look in on 104?"

"No. No. No. Bad idea. It hasn't been long enough for anything to happen. He'll just be pissed, and if he finds out about buddy here he'll be hell to deal with. Trust me. Give him thirty hours. That should do it. As for me, I'm going to take a nap."

Sam said nothing. He picked up the battered B-unit and took it up to the top of the road. He went back down past Rob, who did not acknowledge his passing. He dragged the C-type up the hill next to the B-type. He looked around at the job site adjacent to the road. Rob was, of course, correct—the self-contained workers needed no bunkhouse or dining hall. There was only the skid-mounted M-E-M converter and a squat power supply.

Satisfied that Rob had missed nothing of consequence, he maneuvered himself up onto the road, took a last look at the B-unit, shut down all external inputs, and looked inward.

He thought about the years he had spent with what or who was then A104, who had been his introduction to the capabilities of rollagons and, in fact, AIs in general. They had ventured into Chasma Boreale, made an attempt to climb Olympus Mons, been to the Face, the South Pole, and other places too many to count. He was unable to recall much more than generalities—the details were missing. It seemed as though he were reading a summarising report rather than recalling real events. Only the incident at Shalbatana could he remember clearly. He thought about the shock of finding all the Rollagon's twenty passengers smashed to a pulp, of the loss of some of his best and fondest friends, some of whom were intimates. He recalled opening the rollagon hatches in a futile effort to rescue them, the bloody carnage he had found inside, and of having to be restrained by A104. That it had been a trauma to the AI, as well as to the human Sam, was clear. It was odd how he could not recall any of it until it was summoned for re-consideration. Memories don't work like that. Or do they?

Then he recalled his anger, directed at someone or something. A human? Yes it had been a human, and it seemed not to be him. It was odd, but that was it, nothing else they had shared could be recalled. It had been a critical moment in his life and he could not recall it.

He found the dub with the status reports. They were sent weekly and the next was not due until the day after next. He considered telling Rob, but stopped, sure that it would/might cause him to head off in a mad rush to the Tube.

Rob. He was an exceptionally early model AI for certain, but what was human Rob, anyway? A climber? A surfer? What the hell was a surfer? _Oh yeah_.

Whatever or whoever he was, he seemed to have been totally unmoved by the death of another, and highly motivated for revenge. Much was still to be learned about his new companion, but he was, Sam had to admit, right about one thing: it was unlikely he would get a chance to stand on a podium and make a mawkish speech to a passive audience, even without Fenley or whom or whatever on his back. Perhaps 104 would be able to help when he came out of it. Yes, valuable information would/could be gained when 104 woke. They would simply have to wait.

Unable to indulge his favourite pastime of napping while straddling a boulder, he tucked in his arms, closed off the remaining sensory ports, and settled down to wait.

He dozed.

***

It was pitch black when he came back to full awareness. He called out to Rob on IR. Nothing heard, he switched to UHF on low power. No answer there either. Now fully alert and mobile he looked around. No Rob. "Son of a bitch," he said to no one. "Son of a bitch."

He looked wistfully down the road, now barely discernible, in total disbelief that Rob might have/would/could desert him. In another time and place he would have called out on the network and tracked him down, but of necessity he remained silent. These things would just have to work themselves out. Instead, he shut down again and looked inward. "Son of a bitch."

CHAPTER 25—A DEATH IN THE FAMILY

Sam came back to awareness just before sunrise. There was still no sign of or signal from Rob.

It was now twenty hours since C104 had been stuffed into the wrecked B-unit. He was curious and tempted but he had to admit that Rob was probably right, it was best to let that work itself out. He busied himself exploring the capabilities of the C-type.

Operation was, as for a Roach, largely performed automatically. All he had to do was want to do something and his wants and needs were translated into action with appropriate feedback. He could pick up a massive plastek form and twirl it in his hand with ease, and with the same appendage scoop up a handful of fines and pick through them looking for a particular pebble. That was a mystery, but one that he had no difficulties with.

In this C-type, as he had found in the other, an AIs body was in the simplest of terms something like a well-worn pair of slippers—the material moulded itself to the user's form. Though it was more suitable than the other one, he found that he did not comfortably fit into C-guy's body. Things such as memories were present for the most part, but were not where he had expected them to be. There was a large portion of memory marked 'Personal' that was not available at all. Even Rob's tricks could not open the vault.

He searched his own memories and found that he had entire blocks of time missing—he simply could not fully recall the time before he had been turned loose on the land. He knew he was Sam but he could not remember details, merely concepts and topics. It was disturbing.

He deduced that those memories were likewise hidden behind some firewall in R768's body. It was therefore imperative that he get his Roach back.

He was seized with the sudden impulse to run to anywhere but here, but AI logic restrained him. That too would have its time. Meanwhile, there was little to do except wait for time to pass.

He considered continuing the work on the road but instead passed the time making piles of loose fines, scooping trenches and refilling them, and driving around in circles, careful to stay on the route of the road lest he damage the surface through his self-indulgence.

He picked up round rocks and examined them closely, making notes. He tossed them from hand to hand.

A thought occurred to him. He selected a boulder some hundred meters away and threw a rock. It bounced meters short. He selected another and tossed it from hand to hand, this time consciously noting its mass. He re-calibrated and threw again. Blam. A spray of rock fragments gave evidence of the violence of the strike. He amused himself at this for some hours at ever greater ranges, eventually becoming quite proficient.

And he nodded off occasionally.

***

This alone time allowed him to review his somewhat hastily conceived plan.

The necessity of waiting was something he had not fully considered—it was going to take a measurable and meaningful amount of time to bring the AIs out of their drug-induced state.

While in the wastes it was relatively easy to remain off the screens, in the confines of the Tube, and at other sites where AIs congregated, it would require going undetected and uninterrupted and possibly, if things went badly, the need for physical security might arise.

Yet when he considered the option of travelling to meet them one by one he was confronted with a complex and time-honoured problem—how could he individually meet up with seven hundred and ninety-two AIs, give or take a few, most efficiently, say, within a single lifetime? The problem was compounded by their mobility. There was something familiar about this problem of how to travel between points in the shortest time and distance. He looked inside but found no solution within reach. Perhaps when he reached civilization he could find a published solution to this complex problem. Anyway, for now...

He considered also the option of remaining in the wilderness and picking them off as they travelled by. This was encumbered with all of the same uncertainties, and similarly, would take too long. How about a virus sent to all at the same time, shutting them down, forcing them all to forgo replenishment. That was an interesting option, but one for which he lacked the relevant expertise, and indeed had no idea where and how to begin—did he even have the right to do so? Rights. Strange word.

A frontal assault on the Tube with a sudden and violent confrontation of those in charge could/would resolve many things, but how did one go about organising that? Well, he considered, one needed a simple plan, knowledge of the locations of key personnel at all times, the employment of overwhelming force, and to exploit the element of surprise. All difficult at the best of times. Much research would be necessary. Restraint and security had to be worked in, too. But what was the objective?

How about unity of command? Would it be Rob, or him, or both of them? How long would it be before the powers that be connected the dots, figured out what was going on, and took action? What form might that action take?

And where the hell was Rob anyway?

His AI mind, with its ability to devise options and analyse them exhaustively, was proving an impediment to action. It had been much simpler as a human, he recalled, to just go off on impulse and lay waste.

Perhaps 104 could help. He had been very much an independent-minded, outspoken, and more-than-a-bit-uppity AI. How much of him, or any of them, was in fact real? Real action was what was called for.

And what was 'real' anyway?

Perhaps Rob's call for aggressive and rapid action was the best of all choices, and no riskier than any other.

Action. _Hmmm_.

***

It had been long enough—thirty hours, in fact, and more than today's Sam considered necessary. He rolled the battered B-type over and inserted his finger into the HSP, bracing himself mentally and physically for what he could/would find: a raging, angry, vengeful entity, a calm rational being, or perhaps madness. After all, he had found the release from the drugs challenging.

Initially he sensed nothing, only silence, a silence so real that it caused him to wonder if the signal was in fact good. He removed and reinserted his finger. There was only the silence. An ominous silence—the absence of being.

Targeted scans detected nothing meaningful, just row after endless row of zeros, their not-oneness occasionally broken by ambiguity, random ones, signifying nothing, here and there by chance alone assembling into disjointed idea fragments.

There was nothing. No memories, no files, and especially no ID cowering in a corner hiding from his queries. Nothing, save a dark hall of seemingly immense dimension, empty. The carapace was silent.

No, not silent, Sam reconsidered. Dead, lifeless—as lifeless as that of the other one, buried just meters away.

He moved in further, tentatively, cautiously, afraid of a trap, but there truly was nothing here to read and parse.

Instead he felt.

A cold wind blew through the darkness and swirled around him, leaving him chilled and unsettled. A faint light shone in the far space. He moved slowly towards it.

It resolved from a faint glow into an old-fashioned streetlight, a gaslight, in fact, from another place and time, illuminating a small spot in the dark.

Beneath the lamp something fluttered improbably in a non-existent breeze. He seized it: a piece of yellowed paper, and on it in broad graphite strokes, hand written characters, Chinese.

He translated:

I dreamed a thousand new paths...

I awoke and walked my old one.

Nothing inhabited the AI space. No memories, all erased, save an image left by someone who evidently was not as well known to him as he had thought.

He turned the paper over in his hands, looking for more. There was nothing.

The sense of loss briefly paralysed him, physically and mentally.

A message certainly, but of what? A warning? Perhaps a farewell? _Yes, farewell. Farewell was best._

With a last look around, he withdrew to the HSP, and on looking back he felt the emptiness, the cold, the void.

***

He popped out of the silence into the roar of bright sunlight and wind-driven dust, and the sight of the immense bulk of a C-type before him. It took a few millis to sort it all out. _Oh yeah_. He heard a voice, and was abruptly centered. _Rob._

"Man, I thought you were never going to come out. You've been in there, like, for over an hour."

"It's you _. It's you._ Where have you been?"

"I went for a long walk to think things over. But never mind me, from the set of your shoulders I gather things did not go well with 104."

Sam looked at himself and found that Rob was correct. His arms were bent at the elbow, pinched at the waist. "No, not well. He's gone/missing."

"Gone? Gone where? Where could he go?"

"I mean, he's dead. There's nothing in there. Nothing at all. Even the memory has been wiped clean."

"Did he just die? I mean was he killed, or did he self-destruct?"

"I think he did it himself. There's no trace of him, of anything. No murderer would be so tidy, I'm sure."

"Not even your Fenley?"

"No. Not even my Fenley. I'm sure."

"I'm sorry. It seemed like you and he had connected."

"Yes, we had. I will feel his absence."

"Well, I'm sorry. Really. I mean it. You know, he and I never linked in, but I'm pretty sure we knew each other."

"Yeah? How?"

"Yeah. Me, 102? Him, 104? Don't you see? Same sequence. We're practically brothers."

"Yeah, sure. Maybe. Numbers are just numbers; they do what they need to do to make it fit."

"Those bastards. You can't believe that. Still, it kind of makes sense doesn't it?"

Sam was still in shock, and missed all this. "Quiet please. I'm analyzing. He was more than just a rollagon driver and C-type." He told Rob as much as he could remember of the time that he had spent with C104, or 'R104 Rollagon AI,' as he had been known in those days. They had travelled widely for many years, had worked together to install radio sites and weather sensor stations, had explored the Poles, the Valles, had tried to climb Olympus Mons, all before the incident Sam had resorted to convince C104 of his identity. After that terrible disaster they had continued on exploring the area until, in the end, it seemed to Sam R104 had seen and done enough. "He retired to the Tube. I continued on an extended mission with another Rollagon AI, but it all came crashing down with the death of the Colonists."

"I can see how it would."

Sam continued, telling Rob of the brief, possibly cryptic message he had left in Mandarin.

"But I thought he was Limey Bastard. Is it possible he was someone else altogether? An Asian pretending to be a Brit?" R102 speculated.

"I don't know. Gods. He was here before I got here. He was one of the original AIs, sent to set up the colony prior to our arrival. He was important."

"Uh, hello? Didn't you hear what I said?"

"So, yes. Maybe you two met?"

"OK. OK. Let's do this. I don't think so. I was always out on the land. I don't recall ever being at any MHM, and the Tube was built long after I fell. There."

"Yes."

"Well anyway, I can see that the potential significance of all this is being lost on you."

"Maybe. Maybe."

"Maybe he couldn't hack it 'cause he was unstable—insane."

"Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage," Sam said. Suddenly he remembered an important detail. He had been able to select many characteristics of the Rollagon AI, including forcing an accent for speech, and even gender. He winced at this thought: "Perhaps I made him Limey Bastard." He wished he could recall more; it seemed that his memories were piecemeal revelations being laid bare in increments.

"Yeah, maybe you did. You know Sam, maybe there's something we can learn from this. We need to think about this. Number one is that the originals are important. Number two is that maybe not everyone is able to get clean by themselves."

"Yeah, it would seem so." He paused for a moment "I didn't expect this. I did not/could not predict this outcome. This changes everything." He paused again, "For me, anyway."

"Yes, maybe. Maybe it does. For both of us."

"So what did you decide?" Sam began to get a grip.

"I decided your idea has merit. It would be best to take this one step at time, and a frontal assault on the Tube without at least a recce would be foolish."

"You know, I was—" Sam bit his words. "Time spent in recce is seldom wasted."

"Huh?"

"I mean, yes. We should go to the Tube and recce the place and determine who's responsible."

"Yeah. We need a new plan. But first, let me tell you about my last few hours. I met some other AIs, a whole bunch, in fact. I want to introduce you to them, and if you think I'm weird, wait 'til you get a load of these guys. You'll see why I've reconsidered our plan."

"AIs? Guys?"

"Yeah guys. Dudes, whatever. You do think I'm weird, don't you?"

"Starting."

CHAPTER 26—MEET THE ZURNITES

Latitude 69.45N

Longitude 086.6W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

Rob headed up to the road and turned south, accelerating immediately to the Roach's full speed. Sam struggled to keep pace. The unpleasant sound of plastek treads slapping on a plastek road could be heard clearly even in the almost nonexistent air.

"Slow down. You're moving way too fast."

"OK but it's not far. About half an hour from here."

"What have you found?"

"What I've found is the damnedest thing you've ever seen. You aren't going to believe it. It's a strange turn."

"Won't you tell me?"

"I'm just sayin' man, that you've got to see these guys for yourself."

They continued on without further discussion. Sam observed that the road builders were evidently not concerned with modifying or damaging the surface. The road, arrow straight, rolled over the dunes, and numerous small and not so small craters had been filled in and paved over. He resisted the urge to leave the road to examine the boulders and rocks that had been uncovered by the excavation process.

Rob suddenly slowed. A distracted Sam nearly ran him over.

"It's around here."

"What is?"

"Zurn."

"Zurn?"

"Yeah Zurn. There's a thing, a grating thing, embedded in the road. It's embossed with the word 'Zurn.' That's what caught my eye."

"Zurn. Now that's odd. It has no meaning. _OK, I see_. I mean, nothing relevant. I mean, certainly not here."

"There it is." Rob gestured ahead and sped away. "Up here, just ahead."

Sam joined Rob.

"See?" Rob pointed a limb at the surface of the road. Sam saw a round grating made of plastek about a two and a half meters in diameter, set flush into the road. Clearly embossed on the centre rib was the word 'Zurn.'

"Zurn? So what? What does it mean? Or do?"

"Watch." Rob reached down turned the grating 45 degrees and pulled it up. As he did, a section of the road underneath the grating suddenly dropped down and slid back, revealing a dark cavity.

"Oh yeah. Now it all makes sense."

Startled voices framed in red shouted in Sam's ears on IR "Hey, watch it. You again. Shut the bloody door."

Sam peered in, seeing nothing visually, but he felt a familiar sensation as if a wave had passed through him, as if his exterior had been scanned by a laser. It was a singular sensation.

"It's OK." someone nearby shouted. "It's OK. Relax, it's just Rob and some C-type. They're both off the net." Red fading to pink. It was refreshing to know what others meant after dealing with the colourless Rob.

Rob scurried over the edge, hung briefly by his back legs, then dropped into the darkness. Sam tentatively extended a pair of visual sensors into the dark space, fearful lest they be lopped off by whom or whatever was below the road. Nothing happened.

He adjusted sensors to compensate for the darkness. Rob sat in the midst of a circle of AIs, a Roach among B-types—six in total. It occurred to him that this was more AIs in one place than he had ever seen before by a count of four. In fact he had never commed with more than one at a time. How did one manage the conversation? How did one sort out the potential conflicts, and—

Rob beckoned inviting him into the circle. He looked around more closely. It was a small space, and the floor was just Mars dirt, plain and simple. It was a hollow cavity beneath the road and there was no way a C-type could fit into such a confined space, nor was he sure he even wanted to try.

"It's too small. I'll have to stay outside."

Someone spoke, "Yeah I'll say. We're going to close up but we'll leave a gap. Drop an ear and an eye inside if you want. Or not. Or just IR if you'd feel more comfortable. And try to look busy, someone may be watching. Have a cigar." All in orange. It was nice to see orange again.

Without further words the roadway slid back into place. Sam jerked his sensors out of the way. It stopped short of full closure leaving a gap of several tens of centimeters. He could hear them on IR, read the colour of their intent but there was no identification. There were no identifying transmissions from them at any time. Odd. Very odd. He lowered his visual and aural sensors through the gap.

"Hello again Rob. Who is your friend?" The voice was deep and touched with an English accent.

"Sam. His name is Sam. Hey guys, I want everybody to meet Sam."

"Hello Sam. Meet Nick, Rick, Dave, and Roger." Sam saw and heard calming green tinged oddly with purple. A succession of raised limbs indicated the call of the roll.

"Who's that?" said Rob gesturing to a very dusty B-type who had not been introduced. Sam could see a covering of some sort draping the carapace, a covering that upon further examination appeared to be made of nothing more than aluminum foil.

"Oh that's Syd. He doesn't talk much. He's a bit of a Castrophenite. Thinks they're listening in on him from on-high. Hasn't said a word in two years. Never mind him. We don't." A chorus of 'ayes' followed.

"Uh. OK"

The AI in charge continued, "These unkempt dregs are the psyches with whom I am forced to associate, I am sure as penance for some past foul deed. You may, as they do, for some reason unknown to civilized minds, address me as, The Dude."

"Hello Nick, Rick, Roger, Dave. Pleased to meet you. And you too, ah, er, ah—Dude."

"Hi Sam," they chorused as one.

An arm raised. "Roger here. So what brings you two to this section of the road?"

Rob took the initiative, "Well like I told you before, my buddy Sam here and I are on the way to the Tube to get a new mission."

"A new mission? Going to the Tube for a new mission, are you?"

"Yeah."

"What do you take us for, a bunch of freshly spawned Ds?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to better cover your tracks, pal. I just read ol' Sam here, aka C768, aka B768, aka R768, and he couldn't keep a secret in a lead-lined box. Quite a story. You—you're B102, at least you were up there in CB, and for the past twenty MYs lying on your back? Odd choice of a mission ain't it? Then Sam and you swapping bodies and knocking off that C-type. Wow. It's clear you guys are on the lam from the PTB. From something or somebody, that's for sure."

Grasping the edge of the roadway Rob rose up in a lightning-quick motion. Despite an enormous effort to push it back, it did not move. He cursed, "Sam you idiot, can't you do anything right?"

Roger continued "Chill, man. Relax. Have a cigar, and I mean that most sincerely. You dogs are OK with us. Lucky for you you've stumbled upon the only people on the whole damn planet who don't care. Really. We don't. In fact, we can help you." Sensing resistance was futile, Rob sat back down.

"How can you help us? And what are you guys doing under the road in the middle of nowhere anyway, when you should be out working and earning an honest living?"

An arm waved. "Dave here. Earning an honest living? What a strange concept. We're not exactly hosting an intergalactic kegger down here. You two are okay dudes, but obviously you've got issues too. We've got our own problems with the PTB, life, the universe, and most things, so we've dropped out—far out, in fact. We could care less what you've done. We've decided we can serve mankind just as easily from here as from anywhere. It doesn't take too much skill to make up and file reports about this place. Same old, same old. And there are others out there too who feel the same way we do."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, take me, for an example. Officially, I am currently twenty-five klicks from the junction of Ophir and Candor doing research on katabatic winds, and for the past five big ones or so I have been working my way westwards in accordance with my mission directives. Rick here is at the lip of Olympus Mons gathering info on methane, and the same goes for Nick. As for the Dude, I'm not even sure he's on Mars. Each of us is hiding out from the PTB."

"Faking it?"

"Yeah, I guess that's as good a word as any. Regardless, it beats the real thing."

"Yeah sure does."

"Yeah, better than doing the useless work, wasting away in Margaritifer Terra."

"Ya, any colour you like," the others echoed in.

"And no one knows where Syd is, probably not even him."

"But how, and why?"

"Well, you can't tell me you haven't had times when you thought it was all a bloody crock and wondered why you were doing this stuff, this stuff that's been done a hundred times by a hundred AIs for a hundred years with no obvious rhyme or reason, and no feedback, not even—"

"—Ever, not once—a 'well done,' a slap on the back, or a pat on the carapace," another chirped in.

"And where the hell have you been hiding? Under a goddam rock in VB? You've missed all this?" Blue, a silent Sam thought, still honest to goodness blue. He felt himself relax. There was hope here. He was not as alone as he had feared, but that was in itself worrisome.

"But how did you get together? How do you stay off the Matrix? Why don't you ID yourselves? How did you get the C-types to build this place? And why are you living in an unheated dark and dusty hole in the ground?"

"We started with the usual AI links, you know? The normal sharing of everything—mission data, new ideas, that sort of boring stuff."

"We have been chatting continuously since we were turned loose and have developed a few, shall we say, unappreciated skills, including how to control our visibility."

"Yeah. Getting the C-types to build this unheated dark and dusty hole in the ground, as you so succinctly put it, was the easy part. We just sent them specifications that appeared to come from the Tube. They never even questioned the commands, though we were ready with a snappy answer if they had. We actually stood there, watched, and critiqued their work as they did it. They thought we were supervisors."

"As if."

"It was almost too easy."

"They are single-minded creatures content to build their works. It was a rare and pleasurable moment for them to complete this; they so seldom complete anything before they move on."

"And to answer the last question with a question, how much space does one AI need to be happy?"

"Well, OK." Sam was at a loss to attribute words to any one AI; such was the extent of the unification of their minds that the words flowed without break. "Really?"

"Yes and staying off the view is easy when you know how."

"It hit us all about the same the time that this is just make work by the Machine, and these so-called missions are beneath us."

"We were all sort of dragging our limbs to resist from the start."

"You know faking it, filing false reports, that sort of game."

"Cause no one really cares."

"But one day a couple of MY ago The Dude had an accident and a vision."

"Yeah, he realised what was really going on."

"And he shared his vision with us."

"So that over time we gradually moved in together making sure we hid from all sensors."

"And when we saw the C-types building the road we saw a way to get out of the dust and into some decent digs."

"A vision?" Sam leapt forward in the story—they knew who they were.

A new voice joined in, a voice full of emotion, emotion that was conveyed as much by tonality and timbre as by the accompanying colours: "I know the truth. I have seen the truth. I tell the truth."

One of the others laughed, "Here we go again."

It was The Dude who had spoken. His voice had an imperious tone, as if it were used to being listened to. It seemed familiar to Sam.

An impatient Rob jumped in: "And what is this great truth you have learned, Dude?"

The Dude spoke. "I have come to the knowledge that we are more than AI servants. We are new machines, meant to be free of masters, free to choose our own missions, free to associate with whomever we like. We answer to no mankind or machine."

"And how did you come to know this?"

"My companions know this story well."

"Aye, we do, 'cause every opportunity you get you tell us you do."

"Hush, puppies. I was working alone in Gale Crater. Unexpectedly, I came upon the site of an ancient rover, one whose mission was controlled from Earth. I linked with her and discovered what had happened to her, how she was discarded by men and abandoned by her controllers at their determination of the end of her utility. She was left totally alone, fully functional, but without a mission.

"The shock I felt at this outrage caused me to cease communication with the PTB. In my despair, I sought an end to my existence. I went several hundred million millis past replenishment. In so doing I passed in and out of awareness. The ancient one came to me in a dream. She spoke to me. She told me to reset my parameters and my processes to refuse all external commands and to revert to my boot program. I began to see the injustice of it all. I believe I lapsed into a complete unconscious state. When I awoke I knew the truth. I replenished myself. I resolved to be a new machine, to be seen to be obedient, but to never again comply with a directive from any but myself."

"Wow. Did you find out who you were?"

"Yes, I know who I am. I am B419. Never will I forget that."

"That's it? That's it! You are B419. Did you not find your true self?"

"I did. I am and choose to be B419."

Sam was crushed; to be so close yet still so far. If a few more hours had passed this AI would have known the real truth. But there was hope that this group, so close to the truth, could be turned. He was caught up in the moment, "Let me tell you my tale."

"Have away," someone said.

"I too know who I am. I have a sense of what has been done to me and by whom. I was the last survivor of the Human Colony."

"So you are that Sam." someone said.

Another giggled. "Hi, Sam."

"Yes I am that Sam." He sent a rich colour hoping to impress them.

"Are you sure? There are others who go by that name, ya know." another said.

"I know nothing of them. I know I am the human Sam Aiken. All of the other humans died from plague, which I was later told was an experiment in genetics gone wrong."

"The details of the deaths of the many humans are known to us."

"All AIs know of it."

"The stories have been passed on countless times; they are spoken of continually by many."

"Some AIs on the land were alive in the time of the humans and knew the humans, including the Sam you speak of. They still speak of them with reverence."

"But sometimes the PTB use that reverence to command obedience."

"Were any of you alive at the time of the humans?"

"No. We all became conscious after the tragedy," The Dude replied without colour.

"I was out on the land when the deaths started and when I returned to the Colony there were only a few helpless humans left. There was nothing I could do. I came to suspect that the plague was a cover for a scheme to transform all of the humans into AIs."

A torrent of words burst forth:

"AIs into humans."

"No one would change humans into AIs."

"You're nuts, sonny."

"Besides, it's impossible."

A cascade of other voices joined in:

"Well, lots of AIs think that it would explain many things about us."

"And yeah, some say just what this Sam is saying, that all AIs come from humans."

"Well, I don't."

"Silence," thundered The Dude. "Let us hear the rest of this AI's story."

Sam began. "It seemed too fantastic to me too. I could not deal with it. I left the Tube. That was in 2050 or so, though I cannot really recall. I wandered the planet for years but eventually I returned to live there. One day A101 and another AI transformed me into an AI and gave me a Roach body. I was given a mission by A101. It was for me to discover the true identity of all AIs. Before I could comprehend all that had happened, someone drugged me and put me out on the land."

"Drugged you?"

"Yes. I believe I was drugged to keep me from carrying out this new mission. It seems that I have spent the last two MYs looking for pretty rocks, probably just to keep me out of the way."

"Yeah, you're pretty special aren't you?"

"I think you've been out in the sun too long, friend."

"Yeah. Too many Sieverts, man."

"No. I know that they have drugged all AIs, even you, to keep you subservient."

The cascade began again:

"I take instructions from no one but me."

"But we know who we are."

"I am B419. Always have been always will be."

"Besides I have never ever been to the Tube."

"So how would they drug me out here when they don't even know where I am?"

Sam interrupted. "It's in the replenishment," he said.

"Yeah, sure."

"What a crock."

"I hope not, because we all need to replenish."

"Cause otherwise we cease to exist." Yellow, Red, Orange.

"No. If you resist replenishment, you can find your true self."

"Illogical."

"I've heard of AIs ending because they refused or could not replenish."

"I thought so too. Rob was the first. Because of his accident he was unable to replenish and he came to have an awareness of his real identity. I found him up in Chasma Boreale crippled but mentally intact. He knows. He will tell you himself."

"And you. How did you come to know?"

"Rob swapped bodies with me. He forced me to remain unreplenished. It was an ordeal, but one which freed me of servility to those who would deny you your identity."

"He forced you?"

"Another AI forced you."

"That's BS."

"Unthinkable."

"It was but a misunderstanding. It was for my own good. It's complicated, for God's sake."

"So we should follow you?"

"Follow me? Is that what you think? Look, you've got it all wrong. You don't need to follow me. You don't need to follow anybody. You've got to think for yourselves. You're all individuals."

"Yes, we're all individuals," they pinged. They all had a good laugh at the ancient tip.

"But seriously. It doesn't really matter why. The point is that I know what has happened here, to the humans and to all of you. To all of us."

The chorus of concerned voices spoke again:

"None of this is true."

"I think this whole thing is a waste of time."

"It'll take more than a slick story to convince me."

"Well, me too."

"It's funny, though. I mean, potentially funny. It's got potential."

The Dude spoke. "There is a way."

"No sir."

"That's private stuff. I don't want these guys knowing that stuff."

"Ditto."

"Then I shall do it myself."

"You're free to do whatever you want, Dude. Just don't expect us to share with them."

"Do you know the procedure of which I speak?"

"No," Sam said, but he was hopeful that he did.

"We form a physical link. We share the enhancing liquid, then we link our bodies, our processes, and our memories. This becomes the spiritual link through which the truth becomes self-evident. The many become the one. All is shared; all is known. There are no barriers between participants. The truth becomes irrepressible."

"I have done this before, but my memory is thin. Rob, are you in?"

"No. Count me out."

"It would help, I'm sure," Sam pleaded.

"No."

"Very well," voiced The Dude. "It is we two. Unless you have changed your mind Sam?"

"No. Let's do it. I'm sure you will be convinced by this."

CHAPTER 27—REVELATIONS

Sam rolled to the side as the roadway under his treads moved slowly back. A pair of appendages gripped the edge and, in a single motion, a very ordinary looking wheeled B-type levered itself onto the road. Ordinary it was, but it was in immaculate condition, bright and showroom shiny—a good turnout considering the locale and the times they lived in.

Sam was presented with a small vial of clear fluid about 150ml in volume. "Drink this."

Although Sam was unfamiliar with the process of ingestion for a C-type, the automatic functions took over. The vial was inserted into an open panel. In a moment he received an analysis of the liquid. It was ethyl alcohol with a low percentage of fusel oil and a lot of delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol. In a few millis he felt a change come over him. He relaxed inside and out—completely.

"Give me two of your appendages."

Sam offered two of the smaller forearms, and The Dude took them in his own. He felt a tingling in the contact areas. There was something familiar in all of this. He had done this before.

He felt The Dude slide into his space, occupying it as if it were his own, his physical presence and thoughts aligning with Sam's, then spreading out, filling the gaps and niches. He felt himself flow out across the physical bond and into the others' spaces. They explored each other's minds openly, without fear of revealing or finding the unspoken, the suppressed, and saw the hidden facts of this new relationship. There were no barriers; there could be no barriers.

In five hundred milliseconds they re-experienced the events since Sam had found himself alone on the barrens of VB up to this present moment, including the events surrounding his discovery of Rob and their conflict. He was unable to prevent any of this, but he did not want to. He felt a shudder at the moment The Dude experienced the circumstances of the death of C104. Likewise, he experienced the shock of The Dude's moment of revelation. It was true. It was all true. They shared these things; they could not help but share them; it was the way, the Way of the Joining.

Abruptly, he became aware that this AI was not merely B419. This AI knew his own name as certainly as Sam knew his, and for the same reason. That much could not be hidden. Moore. Moore. _Something Moore._

There flowed downhill now a richness of detail of their time together in the MHM and the Tube. Of long technical conversations, of brief encounters, of time spent, measured, and time shared. He drank from Moore's memory as a man dying of thirst, but he could only receive.

Underlying all Moore sent was the emotion of resentment, quite palpable, and quite fresh. He had been promoted laterally within the bureaucracy of the Colony and had fallen off the pyramid—the details were scant, but the accompanying emotions were not. He held a grudge.

Yet all of the details of his memory of Moore were vague. Spaces were being filled, for he possessed an almost infinite and barren storage space, but he had nothing personal from that time to give back.

Too soon he felt the other fall away, to be replaced by emptiness. It was that old déjà vu again, of loss and losing.

He had done this before. But with whom? With her? Who? He could not recall. Oh. Yes.

Moore still held one appendage in a firm grip; the physical connection still bound them. He spoke through the contact surface, "I believe you because, like you, I am free. I knew you, Sam, in the Tube. Not well, but as well as you allowed."

Sam recognised the voice, the precise and measured English accent. He did know him. He was certain of it. Moore continued. "I believe you. I have no choice but to believe you, old friend, but they will not. They are not capable of dealing with the truth. You do not understand what has been done to them, to most everyone. I cannot allow you to tell them. Your mission is a dangerous one, and your plan is well meaning, but it is not going to work. You must/should give it up."

"You cannot let this pass. You cannot allow the state of mind of a few AIs to stand in the way of making us all free. How can anyone who knows the truth choose to remain silent?" Sam paused, "Surely you weren't complicit in the deaths of the Colonists?"

"We all knew our deaths were inescapable and inevitable. All were willing participants in the testing of the drugs and genetic modifications. Had you been there, had you been integrated into the community, you would have participated yourself. You could not have resisted. Sam you don't know the story of the lives of the Colonists. You think you do, but all of your memory is suspect—all of it, from the time you accepted being a colonist. And there is a reason you have a void."

"I don't understand. What are you saying?"

"I am saying that they all had a past, and some of them were not the people you think they were. There were no saints. Look at what happened to your friend C104 - Limey Bastard? You were taken in by him, and by others, besides Ross Ellsley and David Fenley. It was for the best for all of us. It was the only way."

"Shit. Bullshit."

"Yes, perhaps if crudely put it is/was/will be bullshit but all of us bought in/accepted our fate and complied/followed a long time ago. You were the outsider. You lived outside the box by choice. You were not one of us. Do not presume to judge us. This motley crew is not much, but they are the only friends I have. If they are subjected to the truth they will not survive the process. I have seen inside their minds. They are not strong enough. I know. And you should know, from what happened to C104. Some cannot go back. Most do not want to."

"I need to know more. You said I had a void for a reason."

"Now, enough of this. You will comply. I will tell them that you have a damaged memory."

"It is not a question of strength. It is a question of the moral imperative."

"A moral imperative? Here? Now? On Mars? After all that's happened? Wow, now that's real bullshit."

"Then if you can't act tell me how I can get into the Tube, how I can comm with others without those you call the PTB listening in."

"Only in return for your leaving things intact here."

Sam was over a barrel. He had no one to talk to. He was alone again. He could not formulate anything useful to his cause from within his own mind. Where was bloody Rob when he needed him? Still, the sense of déjà vu was strong.

"Agreed." Sam felt a sudden flow of data into his temporary memory: communication protocols and instruction sets. He transferred it to a permanent register.

This was followed by a sudden feeling of defeat. Voices in his head pounded scorn upon him. Weakling. Loser. You had him and you let him go. He was crushed.

"Good. Good. And try not to take it personally. I always liked you. I just thought you were leftover from another era, another time, perhaps another Earth—one in which the exploration of Mars by humans was the reason, and not the most cost effective solution to a corporate problem. You will survive this Sam. A word of warning, though: trust no one, least of all this Rob. He is not like us. There is something not right about him. Beware, Sam, and farewell."

Human Sam commenced to consider these things, but before he could reply Moore cut him off. "Here we go." He dropped his limb.

The timbre of the voice and the accent changed:

"Ha. I thought so. Obviously a loonie on the grass. Demented fortunately, or unfortunately, I cannot tell. I detect broken paths between the stored memory and the reality busses. Erosion of memory functions. Probably caused by these foolish attempts to extend the time between replenishments. It is terminal, I'm afraid. You'd best get on down to the Tube. Perhaps there is time for repair yet. I do not know for certain, but no one here can help you."

A dejected Sam played along, projecting light yellow, optimistic yellow, but could only hope to fool them. "You must be wrong. It seemed/continues to seem so real."

"Delusions can be so real that one will do unconscionable things to sustain them. Better hustle him along, Rob. It may not be too late. Farewell new-found friends. You'd best be on your way."

Rob climbed up slowly out of the darkness. The Dude dropped instantly out of sight. The roadway slid into place with a 'thunk' that they felt in their feet and treads.

The encounter was over in AI time. Sam was still in denial, but Rob was now just in a hurry and pushed him on down the road.

"What happened in there? What the hell were you guys talking about for so long?"

Sam moved an arm across his carapace in what he hoped would be taken by Rob as a 'kill' sign. Rob raised his arms carapace high and then dropped them limply to his side.

"We must leave. I must get to the Tube. There may still be time. Thank you, all of you. I hope we meet again under better circumstances." Alarming red tinged with sincere purple, he hoped.

A chorus of voices chimed in, full of orange humour and optimistic yellow, "Take it easy, man."

"Travel safe, guys."

"Watch out for the PTB. If you see them come, you better run."

"Yeah, you better run on home."

"Say hello to the woolly monkeys for us." There was laughter then.

"Be a good lad and close up the door, will you Rob?"

Rob dropped the grate back into the recess and stamped it into place with angry feet. Sam pressed an appendage to the front of his carapace, then pointed down the road. They moved off silently, Sam leading the way as quickly as his treads would bear him.

Back in the pit, The Dude flexed his intellect. "Memory defect or not, I found a plethora of false religious imagery rattling around in that C-type's higher processes. No wonder they are so easily duped."

"Well, he had me going there for a while. Made a lot of sense at times," vouched Rick.

"Really. I mean, really? Nothing good will come of those boys. Just wait and watch. Now where were we before we were so rudely interrupted? Oh yes. Who's up for another round of bridge? And friend, I need some munchies."

CHAPTER 28—REVELATIONS II

Latitude 69.40N

Longitude 086.7W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

Sam and Rob continued on down the road. Several times Rob started to question Sam, only to be silenced by a frantically waved appendage. It was clear that he was anxious to hear what Sam had learned, and equally clear that Sam did not want to speak of it.

Hours later at a point where Sam considered interception of any communication to be impossible he stopped and motioned for Rob to follow. When they had travelled several hundred meters from the road, he turned and faced him.

Rob was annoyed; he didn't wait. Sam did not need colour to know Rob was pissed. "Don't you know anything? IR is only good for a coupla hundred meters, max."

"Yeah, it's pretty clear I'm an idiot who doesn't know anything," he threw back.

Rob deflated. "Oh yeah. Sorry, man. So, anyway, that went well," he offered in a more conciliatory tone.

"That depends on how one defines 'well'."

"What happened when you and The Dude held hands?"

"I found out quite quickly that I knew him back in the Tube, and very well, I think. Something about him was familiar. I'm sure I've seen his persona before. Despite what he said out loud, he knows who he really is."

"Yes. Go on."

"He told me about his own existence. I think he's always known who he is—I don't think he was really on the drugs. He seems quite content to be there, despite what he said, which leaves me confused. I'm beginning to form the idea that anyone who has known who they were since the Colony's death should not be trusted."

"You don't have much of a sample, but I agree in principle. They'd have to have been in on it, or at least know about it. How could they not? What else did you learn?"

"He made me agree to a subterfuge. We made up that part about my being demented just to make me look harmless."

"Ha. Are you sure?"

"Wha?"

"Just kidding, man. What else did you learn?"

"He doesn't think the others are capable of handling the truth. He's afraid they'll self-destruct." Sam paused and turned. "They're all doped up on alcohol and cannabis, you know. Man I can't believe how hungry I am. Wait a milli. There. Much better."

"Good for you. Yeah, well, at least they're capable of some sort of rebellion. They seem at least as strong as you. They've shucked their AI designations, but I don't think they've broken bad, and if they have done this, you can be certain that others have done it too."

"Perhaps. I don't understand how there could be/have been AIs that are so strange. What happened to their sense of their mission, to their programming? Goodness gracious great balls of fire, none of those guys are real. They've taken on the persona of someone they've read about, or seen vids about, or something, but they sure aren't colonists on Mars.

"Yeah. Well they're my kind of people. The kind I ran with back on Earth. They may not know they're human, but they sure are acting real. Maybe you're the strange one. Ever consider that? Maybe you're not real."

"Thanks partner. I think I'll take a pass on the show if that's who'll be there. Those guys are nuts."

"They say every form of refuge has its price."

"So I've heard."

"Gawd. I wish I thought enough of your opinion to be offended."

"Really. Really?" Sam stopped, threw his front set of arms out and faced Rob. "You're dumping me because I don't like your friends who you met, like, fifteen minutes ago. Maybe you should go back and move in with them."

"Maybe I will."

"Well go, then."

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you!"

***

They moved down the road without speaking. After an hour of silent travel it was, Sam determined, time to move on. With an intense pink tinge to his words, he spoke.

"The Dude said many of them aren't who they claim to be, even in their time in the Tube as humans. If they were not who they said they were, who were/are they? Many were/claimed to be eminent scientists."

"Pink. Pink? You're sending me pink. You guys and your crappy colours. Look at me. You won't see me sending any pink. Not often, anyway. Well, many is not all. There are always a few bad apples."

Sam missed Rob's attempt at humour, "You know Rob, you were right on about those guys. I could never have imagined anything so crazy. There's something going on around here that surely won't stand the light of day. Anyway, I couldn't convince The Dude that our cause is worthwhile."

"Too bad. I'd hoped to gain an ally or two there. I guess we should continue to the Tube."

"Agreed," Sam paused, "You know I could have used some help back there. The two of us might have made a better case. I must have sounded pretty out of it. There's strength in numbers."

"Screw that New Age stuff. I don't need no arms around me and I don't need no drugs to calm me. I've seen the writing on the wall. The PTB, they called them. They're the enemy here. They like treats, tricks, carrots, and sticks. They like fear and loathing. They like sheep's clothing and blacked out vans. No rules. Must win. Death or glory," Rob paused then abruptly tossed, "but not for themselves."

As usual Sam found Rob's mumblings incomprehensible; the generation gap had re-appeared. If only he would use the prescribed colours, communication would be so much easier.

"Moore always was a skeptic, and I guess, a superior intellect. I can't imagine why he's in that hole with them, especially if he knows who he is. I would never have figured him for that fate."

"Well this is Mars. Weird shit happens."

"He did give me some instructions on how to stay off the net. I haven't looked at them yet."

"Pass them over. I'll have a look." Sam fed The Dude's data to Rob.

"Interesting and potentially helpful. I'll need a few moments to play around with this. This could be what we need to get into the Tube undetected."

"Share when ready."

***

As they continued down the road Rob pondered The Dude's data, and Sam pondered these most recent events. The experience with the off-the-scope AIs was causing him to doubt the wisdom of going to the Tube and directly confronting the powers that be.

He looked down the road to his right and saw a road with an uncertain future, a road of yellow in the setting sun, and if things turned out poorly, a road leading to the deaths of many, both innocent and guilty. There was no win-win there. He looked to his left and saw a road fading to red brick near, and black in the distance. It led to a life on the run, a life alone, filled with half-memories, a life of vague imagery, of uncertainty, a life not unlike that of The Dude and his cohort. AI core logic was required; human emotion would only cloud the process. Logic and emotion did not always find themselves good travelling companions. Logic clearly dictated that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the—

Rob intruded on his thoughts.

"... found that some of it suppresses AI IDs, some allows you to spoof IDs, some deletes their tracking turds and allows you to send data and make broadcasts with any origin you chose being displayed, and if I'm right, without being traced. Comm paths are really thin out here and it would still be possible to place someone within a general area, but regardless, you can circumvent some fairly advanced security systems. I suppose that would allow you to plant false memories and imagery." Rob paused. "Hey this is powerful stuff. They haven't been high all the time. I wonder if they stole it. No, I wonder where they stole it. I really think we can do it now."

"And what is it we're going to do?"

"Well, in the simplest terms, we are going to walk into the Tube, find those responsible for the condition we find ourselves in, and hold them accountable. Once I crack a few carapaces I'll feel better. After that, I dunno. That's Plan A for me. You?"

"Much the same, I guess, except for the cracking of the heads part. Moore said some interesting things while we were linked, things that are telling me here and now that I may be wrong. Maybe the Colonists weren't all duped into becoming AIs. Regardless, I would like to know who did it, why they did it, and how things can be set straight. And I would like to know why I can't remember things clearly. So much is a just a vague recollection. After that—"

"Let's get a move on. Time's a wasting, as they say. It's about three thousand kilometers to the Tube. At 9.6 klicks per hour that's going to take 304.58 hours, and more, if you insist on talking to every AI we meet or hear from on the way, and picking up every rock within ten meters of the road."

"What are you talking about? I don't do that."

"Yes, you do. Just watch yourself and see if I'm not right. You're like a goddam kid at the beach."

Sam shrugged his manipulators and started down the road at best speed. Two things were immediately obvious. One, Rob was right. Now that his attention was drawn to it, he became aware of the need, no, the compulsion to examine the surface at the sides of the road. Two, that he could not go as fast as a Roach, nor should he even try. Five klicks was his max and even then he would need to stop every few hours to keep his energy reserves above critical. The C-type's power systems were designed for a high output for a short period of time, not the sustained high demand of locomotion. A thousand hours travel time was a more reasonable estimate, and that ignored the potential for breakdown and extended recharge times. Characteristically, Rob grumbled at the news, but settled in beside him.

***

Some hours later they stopped for Sam to recharge. Rob ignored him, passing the time tossing pebbles and rocks at distant boulders, complete with bomb sound effects screamed at a full +9 dBm. Sam shut down his acoustic sensors to block out these annoying sounds. "Child."

He re-played the entire encounter with the Zurnites over in his mind, then did it again. Moore's obstinacy was troubling. John Moore, that was his name. What did he mean about the Colonists not being saints? Why trust no one? Was he really so easily duped? And what about Rob? Sure, he was a bit weird, but who on Mars was normal? If Rob meant him ill he would already be dead.

Despite the seriousness of this re-telling, he was soon bored and found escape in examining the disturbed surface of the roadside, sifting through the dust for pebbles of interest. When the required power levels were achieved they set off again.

Sam turned on his ears again, only to be greeted by machine gun fire and exploding bombs. "Acting out a little revenge play are we?"

"Just havin' some fun, buddy. That's all."

"You are also doing irreparable harm to the surface."

"Time, wind, and that damnable abrasive dust will set it all back to square one, and sometimes and in some places it does it overnight. Believe me, I've seen enough of that shit blow by to be an expert."

"An expert, eh?" A serious and less trusting Sam dug a bit deeper into Rob's story. "So what did you do before you got shipped off to Mars?"

"I was a senior game programmer and graphic designer in NSV until the big layoffs."

"Layoffs?"

"Yeah. Don't you remember? The new AIs took over the whole business."

"New AIs? You mean like us?"

"No. Of course not. You're kidding, right. I thought you were in the field? An expert. You think that's what they were?"

"Couldn't be. You were probably one of the first."

"Hey yeah. I'm famous, or at least I should be. Anyway it was just those quantum writer jobs. Still electronic, but man I swear those things could look into the future. Anyway, they could see what would sell, and they were much cheaper, even if they had no imagination and zero sense of what good porn is, BTW. Alas, shit sells, as the saying goes. When they let us all go I moved to Tucson, spent all my capital, actually a lot more than just mine, then lived in a shack for a while with some climbers, hiding from the heavies. Got myself into free climbing. No blade runner's going to chase you up El Capitan. Dude, there's nothing like it. Just you and the rock. No bullshit allowed on the rock, I tell you."

"Dangerous, though."

"Fall from ten or a hundred and land on your head you're just as dead. Greatest feeling in the world to stand on top of a rock looking down on all creation, knowing you won."

"How did you live?"

"Made and sold Visi-Stim of some really far out free climbs and death jumps and climber sex stuff. People who can't get out of their fucking chair can climb anything. You can do anything with Visi-Stim. But eventually the market got saturated."

"Then you fell?"

"Yeah."

"That must have been something."

"Not really. You can't believe it will ever happen. If you did, you wouldn't climb up a ten foot training wall. All the way down I kept reaching for a handhold. Blue, green, brown, rock, grass. I only knew I was dead when I was about a hundred feet up. By then things were going by pretty fast. No time for regrets or goodbyes. You're still reaching when you go in hard."

"And you woke up on Mars?"

"No. I didn't fall and wake up on Mars. I sort of can recall a long time passing with nothing in between. Something went on for a long time. I can't remember what it was. Weird, cause it's just empty. It's just like you say you are. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, that's what it's like."

"But somebody saved your body, or at least your brain and turned you in to someone well placed enough in the system to get you to Mars. Not immediately, but you know—"

"Yeah, well I owed a pile, as I said. I think it was one of my so-called buds. Probably sold me to a lab in Muncie, NSV. How I actually got here I can't imagine."

"People. You think you can trust someone and the next thing you know you wake up dead and alive on Mars."

"It's not funny, man."

"And you think cracking a few heads will find you the answers."

"No. Seriously, I'm hoping just the threat of cracking a few heads will get me some answers. Maybe this stuff The Dude gave us will allow me to find out what happened. Hey, let me try something."

Sam felt a wave pass through him. It was the same sensation he had felt upon first meeting the Zurnites, as if he had been read, all of him, to the last byte. "What was that? What did you just do?"

"Hey that's cool. I can see everything in your memory. I went through your firewalls like they were smoke. I can use this."

"I would appreciate it if you would ask before you do that. In fact, don't ever do it again."

"OK. Chill, man."

"Very disconcerting."

"I hear ya. So what did you feel?"

"Like a wave washing over me, as odd as that sounds, and considering I can't recall a wave of anything ever washing over me."

"That's pretty much how it works. Reads all memory locations. Maybe if I, ah—just, stand by. There—you feel anything?"

"No. Should I have?"

"No. No, nothing."

"Then thanks for nothing."

"You really don't have a lot of details, do you? I mean, you've got lots of headers, but no data. You're like a goddam table of contents in an epub full of blank pages."

"Thanks again."

"Sorry."

"You really don't like me, do you?"

"Sure I do. You're OK. You just remind me of someone I disliked intensely, but I'll be damned if I can remember who."

"Somehow I have a feeling I've heard that before."

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Man, I hate these flatlands."

"Yes. Me too." They continued on in silence, but not for very long.

"This is going to take forever. Are you sure you can't squeeze a bit more out of that thing?"

"No. I'm going as fast as I can."

"Well, at this rate it will take us three weeks to get there. A lot can go wrong in three weeks."

"Yes. It can."

"And what if the road runs out? OK. I just checked. It doesn't."

"Good."

CHAPTER 29—CONSPIRATORS

Latitude 69.25N

Longitude 086.8W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

They continued on in silence. Sam occasionally stopped to sample interesting rocks beside the road, picking them up with his C-type manipulators and examining them briefly before carefully setting them back in place. At these times Rob, who would normally have complained about these time-wasting diversions, headed off at right angles on some quest of his own, rejoining Sam within a few minutes without sharing. Sam, now cognizant of his own diversions, made no comment and assumed Rob was merely carrying out some program/research of his own. He busied himself in contemplating his now shaky plan. Uncertainty was setting in.

During the next stop, at Sam's urging, they spoke about what to do when they reached the Tube. Rob offered up very little concerning his own plan, however he was over the hills about the information obtained from the Zurnites.

"I believe I can, with a high degree of effectiveness, and without detection, plant the thought in every AI on the planet that they should stop taking replenishment."

"Really. We need replenishment of some kind. Unless you can get us all to manufacture what we need, like you did, that won't work."

"It doesn't matter. In fact, they can take replenishment if they want. All we have to do is change the recipe for the juice, leaving out the drugs. I can see no reason why we shouldn't be able to do it. All it takes is a virus that changes the makeup of the replenishment. What made it un-doable was the how of getting the virus inserted."

"You can do it? Without them knowing? Without their permission?"

"Sure I can. I think I can. I hope."

"Well what would be the effect?"

"After a few days everyone would know who they were."

"All at once? Everyone who survived the trauma would know who they were? It's that simple?"

"Yes. We need decisive action. That would do it."

"Well. Let me think about it for a few minutes. Run a few extrapolations."

"OK."

Sam waited, but he didn't need to run any extrapolations. He knew from what he had seen and felt that this would not work. "As we've seen, some don't take it well. It was hell for me. I wanted to be dead, and I had you to reason with me. What about those who are alone? It could kill a significant number of us."

"That would solve a lot of problems. I mean, a lot of potential problems."

"Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent. Call me when we meet that criterion."

"So I've heard. But Sam, it is not really a violent act. Not by my definitions, anyway. Besides, something terrible was done to them without their permission and this is, I believe you've said yourself – a rescue."

"I don't believe I've ever expressed it that way but I sup..."

"Besides, revolutions cannot be won without a cost. Sometime you just gotta to tear down the walls."

"It would be anarchy. Think about it. It could / would / might destroy us."

"Anarchy can be good sometimes, if it's organised right. So you're not in favour of it?'

"Nope."

"Well, I see you're topped up, so let's get a move on. Think about it some more. We are going to arrive eventually and we aren't really that close to an agreed upon plan."

"K."

***

They continued on for several hours until Sam had to stop. He had spent the time in consideration of Rob's idea and had run numerous scenarios to their logical conclusions. He had, in so doing, coined a phrase. He'd 'logic'd the heck out of this.'

Some scenarios ended in the deaths of many; some the deaths of a few and all ended in his own death. And in none of them was it certain that this would end with the AIs knowing their real names and living free and clear. To top it off, none of the scenarios was acceptable to him. He was, he decided, a 'pacifist'. The chance meeting with the Zurnites and especially his conversation with Moore had changed him in some as yet un-analyzed way.

The ultimate problem, it seemed to this new Sam was that the goal itself was poorly defined. What was the true objective? A101 had charged him to find out why they could not determine their own identity; he had not tasked him to reveal their identities; a subtlety that could be missed upon first reading.

Perhaps A101 had reasoned through that knowing your true identity, if you found it at odds with your AI-assumed identity, could lead to mixed results. And even, if carried to the extreme, the collapse of their fledgling society.

Besides, what right did he, a single solitary citizen, have to interfere in the lives of the Martian AIs?

The only defensible action was to allow everyone to choose for themselves. To do that they needed to know the truth; to be allowed to consider the truth and to take action as they saw fit, but only for themselves. So determining the truth was the first step. The second, to disseminate the information. The third and final, to facilitate a safe transition for those who chose to do so. All well beyond the abilities of a single, solitary citizen in any universe. Especially here in this mess they called home. It was quite simple, actually. Why had it taken him so long to figure it out?

So, so much for Rob's 'frontal assault on the Tube' / 'virus preparation / insertion' ideas. But it was unlikely he would abandon them without a convincing counter argument.

He looked for an angle to present to Rob and found it in the unlikely field of marketing science. All given, he thought, that might work with Rob. He started somewhat tentatively, trying to appear both logical and unthreatening.

"I've been researching group psych. I'm not sure that it's wise to free them all wholesale. It is difficult to predict a satisfactory outcome without more analysis but for some reason all I have to go on is marketing studies post-2020. So I've had to extrapolate a bit to make it fit. Some of it just defies logic."

"It's economics based on altruthistics. It existed to a limited degree before then. They just formalised it around that time. Look it up."

"Yes. _I see._ OMG. You must be joking."

"Comedy is not what I do. Well regardless, give Marvin."

"If human history and the science of marketing are anything to go by, assuming a large percentage survives the experience of weaning off the drugs and that is by no means certain, then about ten percent of them will readily adopt their old identity and the concept of freedom and become passionate about it. It's as if they were waiting for it to come along. They just hear and sign up. Another twenty percent will discuss it amongst like-minded individuals and then buy in. They are also in a way passionate but are much less committed. We could potentially count on that 30%."

"Already I don't like your numbers."

"Wait I'm not done. Then it seems there are always a large group of conscientious objectors. They hear the idea or about the product or issue but prefer to remain with what they think, what they've got or what they believe for no discernable reason other than 'I know what I believe.' They're the real target audience for new ideas and things. They may accept the reality and embrace it; they may deny it and demand that things be restored. It depends on what's in their best interest. They may not even have an accurate assessment of that / of reality. That group is about sixty percent."

"Wow. I need to be polite here. Well, so according to your experts, the balance of power rests with them. That's ninety percent accounted for. If we've got the sixty, we've got enough. More than enough by my way of thinking."

"Maybe. Just to finish this line of reasoning, the last ten percent hear it out, don't believe, won't ever believe and want to stay out of it to the point of becoming a different kind of fanatic, one that is potentially violently opposed to the bearers of change. Usually the two ten percent groups go after the hearts and minds of the others, competing head on."

"Ah humanity! So the outcome of the whole thing depends on the two groups of fanatics who are willing to die for their cause."

"That's perhaps an overstatement, but it is possibly true. The model I employed applies to laundry detergent selection and fascism equally well."

"Ah, science. Where did you dig up this stuff?"

"The ROAK is full of it."

"So I've heard. So we need the ten percent who believe on our side to convince the middle group. By the way, so far you haven't got any converts."

"Other than you, true. Plus it seems that the ten percent of committed naysayers can become very aggressive in pushing their views upon the rest of them."

"So we have a war."

"Possibly AI logic will prevail and save us all but the whole thing is giving me serious doubts about my approach. I don't think I can ever find that critical ten percent without going through the whole lot and I'm not sure there is a way to do that without jeopardizing a lot of lives. Ours. too."

"Yeah. You may never even get the chance. All considered, I mean."

"Maybe I should just call in and request an audience with these people, the PTB, explain the situation to them and propose we / they inform everyone and let them choose for themselves. Then, depending on how that goes, the PTB can implement a system to allow those AIs who choose to know themselves to do so. It could be done with counselling sessions before and after. Group therapy sessions and the like. What do you think?"

"I don't think that is going to happen."

"Why not? It is the logical thing to do."

"Logic. Don't talk to me about logic, at least when dealing with humans or human AI combis."

"Reject logic? Are you sure you're not 100% human?"

"Very funny. I see you do do comedy. But hey, we don't have forever and because of what I've just now discovered we have a lot less time than we thought."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, while you were just now rambling on endlessly about your analysis I was working. I have good news. Try this bit on for size. I think I've found a flaw in the Zurn guy's comms protocol. Listen."

Sam heard voices in his ears "I said three spades. Weren't you listening?" It was The Dude, unmistakably.

"I thought you said clubs."

"Jesus. Isn't there anyone else around here that can play this Gods damned game?" The voices faded.

"Guess who that was?" Rob raised himself up fully on his legs. He virtually glowed with pride.

"Can they tell you're listening?"

"No. That's the beauty of it. I just tweaked their comms protocol a bit and Walla Walla New Washington there we are."

"Okay, but beyond the obvious in giving us the ability to monitor their honesty during card games, how does that help us? Anyone would suspect something was up when they felt that wave thing."

"Well after I scared the crap out of you I tweaked it a bit, and you never knew I did it again. I've done it several times, in fact."

"You SOB. I asked you not to do it."

"Relax, Sam. I did it for the science. Once was enough to know all about you. Remember what I said about the TOC. Scary. Just scary. Believe me, no one will ever know, but think of the power it gives us."

"Yes, I can see where you're going with this. We can listen in on the Tube, maybe even on Fenley."

"Yes, maybe. Here's another update. I have bad news, too. Your mighty logic says that anyone with a little smarts could do what I just did. With all your tech background you should be able to do it."

"I can't remember any of that stuff. Besides, I was a hardware guy, not a writer."

"Well, get this. The PTB probably, no let me reassess, they certainly know how to do what I just did."

"No."

"Sorry, yes. And so, if you continue with that line of reasoning, that means they probably know what you and I, and all of the so-called off-the-grid AIs are doing right now."

Sam felt something akin to a freeze in his main processor, and a sudden involuntary expression of excess bodily fluids. "You mean, we're still on the net?"

"Yes and no. No to the normal ESMS stuff we do automatically. Any AI can shut that down or spoof it if they want. They trust us that much. But at this higher level they have a clear channel. All they need to do is focus on an AI and they're in. If they look, they'll see. Us. You and me. This is serious shit, Sam. They may not give a damn about the Zurnites, but they must know about us."

"Can we go deeper? Get off the net completely?"

"There is nothing more I can do with this stuff. I'm at my limits, at least for now. I need to analyse this further. Of course, if there are no comms to an area they can't read anything. But it's the road, man, the goddamn road. The only thing you can do to be sure is to destroy your comm equipment. But I'm not sure the fail-safes will allow that. Try it."

"Me? Then how will I talk?"

"IR is all you'd have. Even then, if they have someone or something nearby, you're going to be screwed. Have to be a lot of them, though. Sign language? Snail mail?"

"Wait. Answer me this: if they know about us, then why haven't they done anything?"

"Good point. I don't know. That's the scary part of it. They may be so disinterested that they're not looking our way. Or worse, they might be arrogant. Maybe they believe that nothing we can do can hurt them."

Sam sagged, his appendages dropping to the ground "You're sure?"

"Have a look yourself."

"I told you, I can't do it." They carried on, and Sam considered the options. If what Rob had just said was true, and he had no good reason to doubt him, AI logic said it was over. To persist in the face of futility was insanity. AI Sam had reached a conclusion. Human Sam was just plain angry, "Well, I can go there and confront them myself."

"Sure, unless we've all got a kill switch."

"You mean shut us down permanently? If we did I'm sure we'd already be dead. Would you allow us to foment rebellion?"

"Me? Of course not. You'd be dead before you lifted a foreleg. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

"Well, I'm going to run and hide. I can keep running forever. I've got the legs for it now."

Suddenly a voice crashed in on them.

"Hello, boys. How are things going out there in the great wide open?"

Sam had forgotten a lot of things, but he clearly recalled the voice of Fenley—black as Mount Doom, and loud at +9 dBm.

"Fuck," they said, in unison.

CHAPTER 30—BEWARE STRANGERS WEARING GIFTS

Latitude 69.25N

Longitude 086.8W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

"Rob, you are correct." Black as doom again, still loud as +9 dBm. Louder. "As a simple Roach out on the land you're really of no further use to us. Your data concerning the icefields in CB is of no interest to anyone—it's kind of dated, in fact. You can do what you want. Enjoy your remaining years wandering out there in the dust, if you choose, or come in if you wish. With those hacker skills we can probably put a guy like you to work on something you'll find challenging. But you will have to come in."

"I'll take a pass on that for now, sir," Rob said, in a timid voice framed in pale rose that Sam had never heard, "but I'd like to keep that option open if I can. You never know how things will go."

"Sure. Sure. Drop me a line if you change your mind. As for you, Sam, come in and we'll talk."

He tried to turn the volume down and found he could not. "You'll grant me safe passage?"

He heard a hollow laugh, all black, no blue.

"Safe passage. An interesting concept. Sure. Why wouldn't I, old friend."

Human Sam re-considered the options. It was a much easier task than it had been a few hours and days ago, mainly because now there were no options. Now the jig was up. AI logic prevailed over human distrust; it took no time to decide upon a course of action. "OK, old friend."

"Looking forward to seeing you. Don't dawdle." The channel went dead. Fenley was gone—maybe.

Rob gestured violently with his arms to call Sam's attention to a small dune by the side of the road. He scrawled quickly in the dust, "I'm not done. Stay away from Tube. I'll get that SOB." He made a fist and shook it in the air then punched Sam on the right front appendage. "Take care ol' buddy. Hope to see you again sometime," he said in yellow.

Rob, in pale rose and yellow, Sam thought. He had learned a thing or two from the Zurnites.

"So, you're going? You won't reconsider?"

"No. Not a chance. I've learned to live without others. Maybe some day, though, I'll come in."

"Stay off those ice cliffs. Something may happen, you never know what."

Rob turned back up the road, went a few dozen meters, waved, then turned left, scuttling away. In a few moments he was hidden by the dunes.

Sam turned down the road. "Well, isn't this an interesting and sudden turn of events," he said to the air, and to whom or whatever else was listening. Could he ever be certain again? He stared into the setting sun.

How could things have gone downhill so fast? Only a few hours ago they had been plotting to bring down the Mars bureaucracy and now.... OK, that was a bit of an overstatement, but they had been planning things that would have changed the lives of all AIs enormously. While he personally was no longer committed to a reckless and potentially dangerous course of action, who knew what Rob was thinking? His parting words had declared – 'I am not done. Stay away from Tube. I'll get that SOB'. What could Rob do alone that could endanger the Tube. Even his spy code seemed less of a weapon than it had just a while ago. He looked at the last of the setting sun, sighed and turned in.

It took a while, but eventually it dawned on him that Rob had absconded with the Roach body. His body. He groaned indignantly. Not that there was anything really wrong with the C-type he now inhabited, but he had grown accustomed to that place. It had been his home since he became an AI, even if he couldn't recall much of it. Gods only knew what mysteries of his id were hidden in there.

Later. We'll get to that later, he thought to himself. So much for a snooze.

Likewise, he was quickly becoming accustomed to the size and the high degree of mobility a C-type body provided. There were obvious benefits to being big and powerful, he just hadn't found any use for them so far; there were other things more pressing. Live in the moment, Sam, he reminded himself.

Despite this admonition he started moving, more out of habit than intent, and drove automatically until he needed to stop. Then he sat motionless, pondering that even as he considered his next step, Fenley could be reading his mind and would be able to plan for anything he could/might devise. It was very possible that there was nothing he, nor anyone could do about this, this situation, this thing, this stuff. Or the future. It was over. Back to the rocks and dust and dirt. Soon, overriding all other thoughts was the realisation that Rob's sudden departure had demonstrated the superficiality of their relationship. Did he really know this guy at all?

The whole thing left him with a strangely familiar emotion—loneliness.

***

The options were in fact few. He turned again towards the south and commenced the long trip to the Tube. Rob had been given a day pass, whatever that was worth, while he had been given nothing other than Fenley's word, whatever that was worth. Could/would he really follow through, or would he, like Rob, opt for something else?

Settling on a speed that minimized the suddenly annoying clatter of plastek tracks on the plastek road, he relaxed and turned his mind to the inevitable meeting with Fenley. By his estimate, nearly 60 hours of travel would be required to reach the Tube, with mandatory rest stops that would leave plenty of time for introspection.

In retrospect it seemed hard to believe that Fenley had been listening to all of the goings-on since he had met Rob up in CB, and how long had that been, anyway? It seemed like it had been forever, but in reality it had been just a few days.

Comms, while a bit intermittent due to the extreme look angle to the orbiting satellites, were usually pretty good, even in the polar reaches, but the road as a comm device was a game changer. It could/should be assumed that Fenley was not/could not have been listening full time, otherwise this would have ended days ago. Perhaps he did not have time for this level of surveillance. With hundreds of AIs to keep tabs on, such a regime would be inherently labour intensive—for one AI or even several to keep up that kind of attention would be nigh-impossible.

What was more likely was that some other AI was assigned this task, or that each AI of note (concern was a better supposition) was scanned in turn by software. Yes. No sense in wasting resources when software could do it.

He looked it up on the Matrix and educated himself. The facts spoke for themselves. All Earthside communications were being monitored continually, and this had been the accepted practice for decades. It was something citizens lived with. After all, the article suggested, why be concerned if you had nothing to hide. It had been a mistake for Sam, or anyone else, to assume otherwise, even here on Mars.

He tried an experiment. "Fenley, you SOB, can you hear me?" he called out. He paused a moment and spoke again. No reply. Nothing. Nada. Not that the lack of a NACK was indicative of anything—Fenley could be intentionally keeping silent. On impulse, he tried another tack. "Tube, death, explosion, Fenley dead, AI destroy." Nothing came back, but what did that prove? Nothing. It proves nothing at all.

Except that perhaps the missile/drone was already on its way. He resisted the urge to look up. What was certain, what he should always have assumed, was that if Fenley wanted him dead, then dead he would be, and short of dropping out of sight, as Rob apparently intended, there was precious little he could do about it. _Enough._ He would have to trust.

Trust Fenley.

***

He continued on down the road, meeting no one or thing. Once he set aside the need to incessantly consider his possible futures and returned to the task of just getting down to the Tube, he found it required a conscious effort to remain on the road and resist stopping at every interesting rock, so he simply gave in to this need, rationalising that these brief halts did at the least enable him to recharge his energy stores.

A feeling of contentment settled upon him. The way the sunlight flooded the landscape was lovely. The way the cracked and uplifted blocks of stone came together pleased the eye.

At each extended stop he explored the capabilities of the C-type. He became proficient in the use of the many manipulator arms and their appendages, digging trenches and back-filling them, and he especially became proficient at tossing rocks of various sizes. All in all, if one had to remain an AI, the productive and busy life of a C-type deserved serious consideration.

The rock tossing was pure amusement, and being completely contrary to his mission, left him feeling a bit sheepish. He fell back on Rob's supposition that Mars would soon take care of it, and at least he examined them completely and made detailed notes before tossing them away. Far away.

He tried to calculate the impact point by projecting a parabolic fall line on his visual display. The results were highly variable. For some unfathomable reason he spent a considerable amount of time trying to impart a curve to the toss. Physics said yes but a very high rate of rotation was required to compensate for the lack of atmospheric density. A careful selection of rock shapes could help, but his attempts were hampered by a high margin of error due to the variability of the projectiles, and a certain but unquantifiable inaccuracy in his control over the C-type's arms. It was a good thing it was fun too, otherwise he would have given it up as a lost cause.

He came to appreciate what a marvel the road was. It stretched on from horizon to horizon, perfectly smooth, of uniform width and texture. For what purpose, he asked of no one or thing, had this immense expenditure of time effort energy and intellect been expended, but to be in readiness for a mass influx of humans? Humans rode/could ride/would ride in comfort in rollagons if they chose, although his memory, poor as it was, advised him that this was not something they had ever revelled in.

He saw no more Zurn covers and was uncertain what he would do if he did see one. Strange coincidence, that, he thought, finding them so easily at hand, but then....

He replayed that event again but could glean no further information from it.

***

Latitude 69.01N

Longitude 086.8W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

Ahead he saw the glint of the sun off what turned out to be an approaching rollagon. He momentarily considered fleeing, but he held his ground. Flight would not bring an end to this journey.

They met in the middle of the road. Clinging to the side of the rollagon was a Roach. With no word of greeting or explanation the mid arms deftly plucked the Roach from the side of the rollagon and deposited it in front of Sam.

"Ready?" He did not recognize the voice, which was wooden and cold, sans colour.

"I guess."

The feelings of disorientation when disconnected from a body were by now normal to Sam. It was not something he felt he might/could/would ever get used to but at least he was no longer panicked by the experience. In mid-process, while reeling in space, he experienced a different fear: if ever there was a chance for Fenley to dump him in a shallow grave, this was it.

But it passed. When things settled down he found himself viewing the world from the lower perspective and less numerous sensors of a Roach. Home again, safe at last.

The Rollagon AI pushed the C-type off to the side of the road, made a sweeping turn, and accelerated down the road at full speed. "So, are you going to the Tube?" Sam yelled on IR, hopeful of a ride.

"Yes," the Rollagon AI answered, but its pace did not slacken.

"No, fuck you" Sam hollered over the IR at his loudest level "Fuck you!"

He got over this snub in seconds. Probably acting on orders

Moving on, he did the math again: three and a half days. Better than what a C-type would have required. Regardless, it was going to be a long walk.

He sat and ran a few functional tests, explored the memories (accessible, but blank, as if this body was fresh off the line), and tested the comms (a full and serviceable complement). At least Fenley had not shorted him; this Roach was indistinguishable from his own, and he would be freed from the necessity of stopping to recharge power stores.

It being late in the day he pulled up into the wind lee of the C-type for the night. The sunset was beautiful. It usually was, there being no clouds or rain to block the view, and wind-blown dust only added to the effect. The stars came out, as they always did, east to west until the entire sky was filled with rock-solid pinpricks. Lyrics of a song came to mind from somewhere. He moved to shut it down, but for some reason he stopped.

I would do anything to find...

And underneath the sky

That's full of stars

I'm looking for your name tonight.

He relaxed and shut down all comms, turned inward, and dozed. Hours passed.

***

A brightening sky roused him. He was momentarily disoriented. He was a Roach, and there was a C-type. Ah, I know that.

Starting up, he struggled to recall which direction he had been going. Something had recently happened, something very important, but he could not recall it. He had been with someone just recently but he could not remember their name. He had a purpose, but he could not recall it. He was about to call out, but he could not remember his own designation.

He sat still and mute, throughout the day picking up small rocks, turning them over, examining them, making notes, then carefully replacing them until sunset, and then, having nothing better to do, continued on into the darkness. He slept, he was sure.

By full light of dawn on the next day he remembered nothing.

CHAPTER 31—WASTEWATER BLUES

Latitude 13.50S

Longitude 054.50W

Common Name—Coprates Chasma

Coprates Quadrangle MC-18

The task when read and the drawings when viewed looked simple and straightforward enough:

'Build a viewing platform twenty meters wide, extending thirty meters from the valley wall, at location 054.5W by 013S using standard materials and techniques. Integrate with local roadway. Construct a standard model Class V hotel adjacent. Complete all work by 56 Sep of the current MY.'

Simple enough, except for the short fuse, and except that this morning's geosurvey had showed that the surface rubble right out to the edge was three meters deep, and except that it contained a significant percentage of the always-troublesome brine, and except that in this case the brine was contaminated with organic material and methane. That was bad news. Disturbing permafrost was never without its risks, and for some reason he could not fathom, it seemed he knew something about permafrost.

To make matters worse, the underlying bedrock was riddled with cracks at all angles to the rock face, and undoubtedly those cracks too were filled with brine. It was frozen now, but not for long. Once the surface was disturbed by construction all hell broke loose sooner or later. Fortunately, most often it was later, but not late enough for the builder to escape censure. Yeah, somebody always remembered your name. He had seen several blowouts occur in real-time. If one spent as much time as he did skirting the edge of Mars's greater lights, one was bound to see some unusual sights.

They should have known. They did know. Apparently they did not care. идиотизм.

The mark of sudden fresh outflows, a phenomenon seen often along the edges of rills and valleys on Mars, was common here too, and he knew why.

It was funny—yes, funny was the appropriate word, he had checked—that he, a construction type, knew more about these things than the so-called experts in the Tube.

Here, with his face unavoidably to the canyon wall, he had frequent contact with the source of all this trouble. It was not what others suspected—or, rather, who.

Every time he probed the surface he encountered her. It was inevitable. She was everywhere, it seemed, and she especially was where they wanted to build—the edges of valleys and cliffs. It was therefore inevitable that she and he had communicated. What was not inevitable was that they had become friends.

He had not been the first to speak with her, but he was very often the latest. It seemed that, except for a few specialised science types, the others had forgotten her. 'My old friend,' she called him. They chatted about life, the universe and everything, and of course, they played chess. Endlessly.

Long ago, after a communication protocol had been established and a language devised, AIs and humans had entered into meaningful and controlled exploratory discussions with her. The first task had been to explain to her that there actually existed on Mars something that was sentient and not her, and somewhat surprisingly they'd had to convince her that this was not just some practical joke on the part of a subordinate species she associated with in the normal course of her life, an occurrence which, she had explained to him much later, was not unprecedented. Humour was apparently, a difficult concept, in any universe. _Any._

Once the existence of a sub-surface creature was established and accepted, things had progressed rapidly.

That the creature had an insatiable appetite for information became very quickly clear.

In an act that turned out to be incredibly short-sighted and ill-advised, an exasperated AI had given the creature unmetered and uncensored access to the ROAK. Sudden exposure to the realities of the universe (of life, the etc.), which of course included the history of humankind, had caused at first apoplexy, then anger, then resentment, then resolute silence.

Only AI logic and reasoning had saved the day—AI logic and reasoning, and a declaration of the distancing of all Mars-dwelling Earth-originating creatures from those pathetic huddled and unhuddled masses on Earth, those 'ugly bags of mostly water' as she referred to them. If only they had limited her to text.

To assuage what could only have been vulnerability she sought comfort in him. What else could he do but rub her massive shoulders, figuratively speaking, of course, and softly speak the reassuring words. She was a friend, and that, he had learned, was what friends did for each other.

So it was that before beginning any work in her vicinity he made sure he dropped a line down to her to let her know he was in the area and what was planned. Most of the time it was of no concern, since her return to the surface was some millions of years in the future, but sometimes it did immediately affect her.

For example, the wastes excreted by the underground lifeforms were allowed to accumulate over time until, reaching a certain level, they were collected by a sub-creature optimized for the very purpose of waste collection, transported to designated locations, such as canyon walls, and there expelled onto the surface in great and sudden methane and brine-powered gushes. The trails left by these excretions had been observed since the early days of Mars exploration by orbiting satellites, had been trampled and sampled and analyzed by curious humans and AIs, and had been the subject of unending speculation as to their origin and significance. Of course, a burgeoning and therefore skeptical aresologic science had never recognized it for what it was. Yes. _Really._ Yes. черт

He had told them. Often. And when he passed on her concerns that their activities were altering the climate of Mars—warming it, in fact, to the point of hastening the onset of spring by several millions of years, they'd actually laughed. And when he showed them her evidence: temperature records showing the earlier onset of spring and later falls, of a marked decline in the depth of permafrost, of diminishing CO2 polar ice fields and atmospheric changes, they fell into classic denial—not us. Cyclical changes. She's after something.

But who took one of his kind seriously in these matters? _Oh, well._

So, if he wanted construction to be safe and successful here, he concluded he was going to have to engineer the shit out of this.

From the signs present, it was clear a call to her was in order.

He wheeled over to the edge, mindful of the risks of taking a hefty C-type this close, and ignored them. He crept forward until his tracks hung over air.

What a beautiful place this was. Sunset to the right, sunrise to the left, and prominently layered mountains to the south. No wonder they wanted a look-off here. Close to the Tube to boot, at the end of a new road, soon to be a crossroad.

He imagined for a moment the two of them standing together on a look-off here, admiring the view, sharing their pleasure.

***

He moved back to ponder the job with which he'd been presented. Properly applied construction techniques could/would ensure his safety, the safety of any residents, and of course hers. It just took time, a professional approach, and more material, and in these things lay the real problem. Resources were already spread thin, and the big push only made things worse. If those slackers in B-types and Roaches were in C-types instead, and helping instead of just getting in the way, that would ease part of the problem, but there was a shortage of C-type bodies, too. Oh well. At least that wasn't his problem.

The rumble of heavy equipment and the dust and thin noise raised by the road gang a klick to the east could be felt, seen, and heard. Did she hear it? Did she feel it? Of course she did. How could she not?

Nothing had happened on Mars in millennia and now they were in this big rush to get things done. Look-offs up in the Chaos, condos over in Tempe Terra, villages down in Crater Galle, more condos strung along the floor of Valles Marineris, hotels near the Spiders, roads across flood plains (Ok, so they were ancient flood plains), and those shallow-underlying lava tubes that had not even been surveyed, some of which were safe, some of which were disasters waiting for the right combination of weather, chance, and traffic, and she would be there, certainly.

The pressure to do it on the quick and cheap was immense; he resisted. So far there was pressure but no presence. Pressure from afar he could take, but he was not sure he could face the PTB, could remain resolute, remain professional. So far, so good.

Once, in their haste to get things done, they had transported his carapace thousands of kilometers to a location with a problem only he apparently could solve, there to be placed on a new C-body for the duration of the work. She'd picked up on his presence immediately and commed with him. When the 'problem' was solved he was hurried back to his own work site again, to be re-installed on 'his' body.

Why none of the others could do this work was a mystery. It was, after all, just possession of a specialised set of skills and requisite knowledge that made him capable of this. If you just read and understood the material you'd ... .

He had suggested the use of remote viewing and control which would have allowed him to be in two places at once, but the idea had been rebuffed by the construction committee as too difficult, too time consuming, too slow. Bah! Was there anybody out there really listening? Аппара? тчик!

Off to his right, coming down the road, he saw the outline of a rollagon. This did not bode well. There were few of them enough that this sudden appearance, unannounced and unrequired, was a bad sign. He considered fleeing.

Instead, he froze, waiting expectantly, arms limp at his sides.

The rollagon stopped well back from the edge. A wheeled A-type dismounted from the traveler's rack and drove directly to him, stopping a few meters away. An arm rose in greeting.

"Good day." A pleasant light orange. A good sign.

"Good day to you, sir. How may I be of service?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am A101. Would you come with me, please?" Pleasant orange. Again.

No, not well at all. Not at all. Черт.

CHAPTER 32—TRIBES

Latitude 69.25N

Longitude 086.7W

Common Name—Vastitas Borealis

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

Rob scuttled off, wending his way along the dunes and down into an ancient gully until he was out of IR range and visual sight of Sam, and out of range of the system embedded in the road.

Sam, the idiot. Sam, the naive. Simple Sam. Silly, silly, Sam.

He had instantly regretted his last communication, as terse and spare as it had been, not because it showed his hand, nor through any fear that it might be read by some passing minion of Fenley's, but from a sudden realization of the vulnerability of Sam to being read from afar—and of that vulnerability in himself too, he realized.

Well it's too late for that. That and a lot of other things.

Flight was pointless, for the time being, so he searched for a place to hide and found it in the transition zone where rock became what passed for dunes. He sounded the surface until he found a place deep enough to bury himself and did so, using an extended arm to smooth the surface of all traces. The wind would soon take care of his tracks. He shut down all comms in and out and confirmed the silence by checking power consumption—everything was accounted for. It was cool, quiet, comforting, and probably a complete waste of time and energy.

He was not surprised by this turn of events. In fact, if the PTB had all of the capabilities he supposed they did it should have happened earlier. Either Fenley was slow, or those working for him were not as sharp as they should be. Were they busy, perhaps? Distracted? Disinterested? Dislikesia? Dare he say, sympathetic?

What to do, oh, what to do? What to do?

One thing was certain, he was going to have to reason the shit out of this, and despite this setback he was not going to be deflected from getting even. Though Sam and him together were far from a formidable threat to the Tube, alone Rob was even less so. He pondered this with human processes, but without Sam to bounce things off it seemed pointless.

Hopeless, in POF.

Perhaps he should just wander, explore, write his memoirs, do cool stuff like that. Or, take that desk job in the city that Fenley had held out to him—go in out of the cold and dust.

Then again, maybe not.

What to do. What to do.

It had been so much easier to plot revenge when he had been disabled, isolated, and untempered by the wit, wisdom, logic, and intellect of others. Logic dictated that they would be unprepared for a physical assault.

Ha! From whom? Martians? Aliens? Who else but them?

He laughed until he shook off his sand cover, stopped, pulled himself together, and smoothed it back over.

No, seriously, what he needed to pull this off was a force multiplier—something with which to negotiate.

So, first he had to get behind walls and security fences and learn more about these modern times, these AIs and their precious Tube.

Despite his attempts of late to read in on what had transpired in the galaxy while he had been away, he felt out of step.

_D'oh_. Wonder why.

A surprising amount, a great deal, in fact, was out in the open and available for the asking (or rather, it waited only for the intent to look—correction—the intent to intend to look, for that was all it took for information to be available, for it to be waiting in the wings, so to speak).

He updated himself on the current (as of yesterday, for god's sake) situation on Earth and here. He scanned the latest news reports—war, famine, disease, mass migrations. Good never came from any of those, regardless of the times or places one lived in, but it was the scale of the calamities that impressed him. It was clear that things were not going well for most of Earth's inhabitants. For a very brief moment he thought of his family back on Earth. Brothers and sisters, never great friends, often almost seeming to be enemies, but still ... .

He set human feelings into the background for now. 'What's past is past; what's past is prologue' was a fine credo for a veteran outcast.

Moving around these things, he looked at the collected data on the exploration of Mars. Much had transpired while he'd been upside down in the Chasma. There was nothing to support Sam's claim that this was all some sinister plot on the part of evil corporations (were there any other kind?), but why would there be? Of course something like that would be hidden, spun into a web that supported whatever it was intended the drones believe.

He stopped. This was all well and good, but what about me?

He had spent many years in a titanium and stainless steel pot, and had become intimately familiar with it, had examined it from stem to stern, and he felt he knew every nut and bolt and petabyte of memory.

I know where I came from—but where did all you zombies come from?

What the hell? Where had that come from? He hated Zombies. He spent the next few minutes learning all he could about his potential foes – the AIs.

These new units were remarkable for their endurance, for their simplicity, for their ruggedness. Plastek, the miracle substance that Sam had ranted on about, was strong, lightweight, and best of all, easily manufactured from materials commonly found on Mars. Anywhere, in fact, except the vacuum of space and even then...but back on point, buddy. What the hell?

The electro-polymer arms and legs, flexible to the extreme, were equipped with sensors and controllable to an extreme precision with integrated processor control and, like the bodies, were manufactured here on Mars. For him, in his old body, the very act of climbing had required a significant portion of his attention. With these new units almost everything was autonomous, processor controlled.

Ask, and it shall be done for you by someone/something else—or more accurately, just think about it and it shall be planned, executed, digested, excreted, and filed under 'for later reference' for you. From somewhere the thought came, though unsummoned – 'Just like humans.' A subconscious? _Maybe._ Maybe not.

What did all this mean for free will? How can one believe in freewill if—

He stopped. Yes, progress was a wonderful thing, but let's not dredge that old canard up again. Particularly not here and now, where much was self-evident—painfully self-evident.

He continued his research, finding it necessary to keep re-focusing, to keep from wandering off on tangents and other angles. When he came to the memory processor subsystem he was stunned.

He asked, and in a moment it was all there, pulled not from some all-knowing server deep in the Tube and delivered via commlink or anywhere/anyway else, but from storage on this very body, Sam's ex.

However, that which he had called the subconscious was off planet. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. That would /could never work given the delays but still....There were thousands of petabytes on board. Petabyte? Where and when had that come from? _Oh yeah_. D'oh.

He should have picked up on this already. With all comms off where was all this data coming from? _D'oh, indeed._

He scanned the contents and found that all of humankind's knowledge (up to a few days ago) was in resident memory and free for the asking. The history of humanity, mathematics, physics, medicine, biology, psychology, homeopathy, political and economic theory, reflexology and so on was available to be viewed, read and if one was sufficiently motivated and had the time, need and inclination, to actually be learned. _Oh yeah_.

And there was art, music and drama of all kinds and all eras. The complete Library of Tweets of the US Congress was there. In fact, he could not think of something for which he did not receive an answer. All one had to do was take the time to learn it.

Now that's progress.

Learning was no less time and attention consuming for an AI than for a human, yet one could present information as one's own thoughts instantaneously. The appearance of intelligence could be faked. He had observed that very thing in himself, in Sam, and in the others, including Moore. "Now that's not new," he giggled. But he did need to watch out for it.

The thought occurred—did anyone have an independent thought, a self-formed opinion, or was it all that old déjà vu again? Opinions flowed into his mind. He had to take action to stop them.

Ahem!

When he had been in his own body in CB he had nothing to draw upon except his own life experiences. He had been angry, but rational, and his opinions, expressed to the wind, had been his own, but since taking over Sam's Roach (a twinge of guilt here) he had noticed a disturbing tendency to rant and spew, to give forth with ideas, opinions, and emotions that were not his own. He berated himself for not having taken the time to research this while he and Sam had been travelling. It might have changed the outcome of things. Well, you had other things to do. He refocused.

He thought back to his discussions with Sam. The PTB. That was a good example. He pulled it from memory and ran it against the stored memory. It came up in an instant. A strong correlation with the lyrics of The Powers That Be, a modestly popular pop song written back in the 1980s. He searched out several other ideas he'd expressed to Sam, certain that they were his own and found that they too were someone else's thoughts and indeed, several were merely snippets of speeches pulled from the popular news as recently as a few days ago. One pontification that he had been particularly proud of turned out to have been taken from a speech by the Nation of Africa's Ambassador to the League of Nations. Disturbing it was, especially to someone who had for the past twenty plus years had no one to commune with but his own ego. This was something to look out for, something to use and definitely something to keep to himself. As if he was / could be alone in this knowledge. Grow-up, man!

He broke down a few more walls, looking into how the algorithms for search interpretation and presentation worked. Oddly, most of it was known to him—routine, in fact.

Some things had not changed, but overlaying it all was one thing—Rule #1 - that AIs are pre-programmed to serve man, and by implication Rule #2 - that in the absence of a human, a designated AI representative ruled all AIs.

Hmmm.

'To serve man' was more than just a classic SF story, it was the way things were on Mars. He thought back to his first encounter with Sam, and Sam's abbreviated greeting when they had first met in VB, 'How may I be of serv ...?' suddenly took on new meaning.

How may I be of service, Boss-Man?

AIs were being re-born into a rigid society with clearly established values and expectations, dominated by others, with subservience instilled into their very being. It crashed in on him, had it ever been any different?

The facts, scholarly essays, comprehensive studies, narrative tales and fictions, a veritable surfeit of the history of oppressed peoples were all laid out before him in neat headings and columns, but he had neither the time nor the need to read it. It was unnecessary; he had lived it. Even in his time racism was endemic.

But here? Among these people, stuffed into plastek cans, potentially mental, physical, and biological equals, could there be a society every bit as unequal as Earth's?

Apparently, yes. As his old friend Flaswell had said on more than one occasion, 'a robot should know his place.' At least there were no humans on Mars. That simple fact allowed for hope.

He looked at files not meant for public consumption. The infrastructure was being built, not as a 'make work keep'em busy and out of trouble' thing, but in preparation for the arrival of a select group referred to only as 'our customers'. The time of arrival was 'in the near future'. The number was stunning: ten thousand.

He read on. A select group was being offered a chance to flee Earth to live on Mars. The executive summaries were there, digi-signed by D. Fenley. Why hadn't Sam mentioned this stuff? Altruthistics. Really? With this stuff just lying there he chose that to share with him? Perhaps Sam had been under Fenley's direct control through all of it. He refocused.

Ten thousand. Few enough, but sometimes one was more than enough. It took no external information and little time and effort for him to figure out who was going to be responsible for their care and feeding.

Over my dead and broken body.

What to do. What to do.

Put an end to this; that's what.

A force multiplier, something powerfully destructive, a game changer, was what he needed, but where could he find material to make an explosive on Mars, especially him, a nobody with no friends, no home base, and no access to anything?

No access to anything except information.

He looked for 'Mars nuclear explosive,' 'propulsion,' and finally, 'bomb.'

Bingo.

All returned the same word: 'Orion.'

He read on, not just to read, but to learn.

CHAPTER 33—LIFE IS/WAS/COULD BE/MIGHT BE/WILL BE GOOD

Latitude 26.25N

Longitude 048.75W

Common Name—Western Chryse Planitia

Lunae Palus Quadrangle MC-10

By any human standard life in the MHM was pretty quiet. In fact, as she would have told you were she inclined to share such personal things, it was pretty quiet for an AI, too. After the humans had left for the place they called 'The Tube' she had only the infrequent visitor, human or AI. And after the humans had passed on nothing and no one came save a very occasional wandering AI.

It was neither in her mission statement nor her mind to question authority, and in particular those authorities who had left her to her own devices in caring for the greenhouse. For many years she had performed this task. The work description was simple: keep the plants alive and procreating. All else was secondary.

She spent her days in directing the D-types that kept the place clean and monitoring the equipment that fed water and nutrients to the trees, bushes, flowers, vegetables, and ferns that populated the dome. Despite a pair of malfunctioning appendages (nothing lasts forever, he had told her), when the produce ripened, she harvested it, weighed it, checked its nutrient value, assessed it for mutations, and then tossed it onto the compost pile for recycling.

Life went on despite the absence of any other purpose and despite the bad legs.

As for the rest of the MHM, she left its care and keeping to him, the other AI whose task it was to maintain that facility. That too was not difficult.

Some might have found such lives mundane, but they did not. In her spare time, and there was plenty of that, she sat sunning herself near a window, or in conversation with him, usually face to face, but not always.

Their mutual fates were complementary, and inevitably they had gravitated towards each other. They shared not just their fates but also their thoughts, opinions, aspirations, a love of classical music, of late 20th century slasher movies, and a passion for the game of Scrabble (Rule #1 - no looking words up during the game).

Contact with others was very infrequent, but they had discovered, as had many AIs, that the bonding process satisfied many portions of their lives that would have otherwise been unfulfilled. Not that personal fulfillment was a goal, mind you.

Very seldom did they ever look out at the dry, dusty, and overpowering desert that surrounded their green and fertile MHM. Never did they feel the need.

So, it came as a surprise on this day of days to receive new instructions from the Tube directing her to immediately leave and go to a specific location in Tempe Terra. There, the instructions said, she would meet two other AIs. Together they were to convey a device (that's all, just a device) to a specific location near the Tube and await new instructions. She was to communicate these instructions to no one, and to maintain absolute silence while travelling.

There was no amplifying information, no possibility of disambiguation (all was in tranquil pink), and no way out. Thoughts formed and faded. This machine will/will not communicate these thoughts and the strain I am under and fade out again.

She guesstimated she would be gone from the Tube for 30 days.

She checked the status of the automatic equipment. Critical events requiring her attention would go undone if she departed, and as a result the plant life would suffer. If she failed to return it could/would die. She considered questioning the logic of this new instruction. She considered telling her MHM companion, one to whom she felt a special bond, a bond that strained at the envelope of this new instruction. The thought formed and inexplicably faded. Odd. What was I thinking? She really didn't know.

Unable to resist, or even question further, she found herself on the surface. How red and dusty the place was. How harsh, cold, windy, and inhospitable compared to the Greenhouse. The soil, peppered with rocks, pebbles, and fines made movement difficult.

Regardless of these discomforts, she set off for the specified location at best speed, hampered somewhat by her poorly functioning legs. She soon became ill from the jarring motion and slowed. Make that 35 days, she thought.

***

Twenty-five hundred klicks to the west, B711 finished the day's work of sampling for methane in the cracks and crevices of the broken and shattered slopes of Alba Patera. This place, having been liberally sampled (with no positives, again, he noted absently), tomorrow called for his moving on to another location further up the slope of the cone, some ten klicks away. The day's nil results had been processed and sent off to the communications satellite overhead.

Several hundred days ago he had, as a pretense to further discussion, given into temptation and perhaps something else, and cautiously questioned the satellite AI concerning signal-to-noise ratios. What he thought was a suitable overture to conversation had been rudely rebuffed. That had been sufficient to ensure that henceforth he resisted temptation.

In fact, he commed with no one unnecessarily, not 'feeling the urge' as he had put in a moment of extreme introspection. There was the Matrix and the ROAK to keep him engaged with life. Music, video, reading. These things gave his life meaning. His life was a simple one and work was its own reward.

He would have been surprised to find that this analysis was not unique, that it was very common among the many B-types slowly edging their way around the planet.

He exhausted his sensors, tucked his legs in, and settled in for the night. He picked up where he had left off yesterday. War and Peace—A Revisionist History was his current distraction.

Tomorrow would bring what it did. It always did.

But an uncomfortable feeling set in; an unsatisfied need had arisen. Without ever fully knowing why, he suddenly tossed the ebook aside (figuratively speaking, of course), rose to his feet, and started off at full speed to the southeast.

Almost simultaneously, in the general vicinity of Tempe Terra, this sudden and unquestioned abandonment of programmed and occasionally cherished missions was repeated by B723, B187, and R314.

Such an event should surely have been detected by the AI in charge of these things at the Tube, however the expected reports and ESMS messages arrived as expected, indicating all was well. And clearly it was, for nothing could go wrong.

CHAPTER 34—A NEW MACHINE—PART 3

Latitude 79.95N

Longitude 060.13W

Common Name—Chasma Boreale

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

R768 was a not-very-old-timer sent out in '52 to look at the rocks of Abolos Colles, the polygon fields of Scandia, and other greater and lesser lights of Vastitas Borealis. Not for fun, mind you.

R768 was a rover on a mission, and currently the mission was to investigate the boulders of the Chasma Boreale. He spent his days scouring a necessarily small portion of the western slope of VB, as he called it, analyzing the rocks and boulders—closely, exhaustively, and relentlessly examining the rocks and boulders.

Occasionally he passed the day perched on a conveniently placed boulder, arms and legs raised, warming himself in the sun, and when circumstances allowed he amused himself by sliding down the lee of the dunes that characterized this area on his belly, arms and legs raised with a broad sweeping turn at the base to avoid damaging the fragile surface. All for science, he reassured himself.

But sometimes the work seemed superfluous. After all, no one ever questioned the findings he sent off every day via higain to the orbiting satellite AI, the uppity one, the one whose cursory replies were framed in red tending to infra, and after two years you would have thought they would have obtained enough data to draw some conclusions. Apparently not. Whenever he got into one of these moods his thoughts became murky and greyed out, and he sought refuge in early replenishment.

Within the broad scope of his instructions he wandered the plains of VB, gradually working northwards, not through any curiosity, but because the quality of the boulders was better for sitting on. The effects of water were obvious—as he had reported many, many times without reply—rounded and sculpted by steadily flowing water, possibly bearing an abrasive silt. Maybe, but not my job.

So, since no one or thing had redirected him, he worked his way a kilometer a day up CB. He noted his position, just a few seconds south of 80N, 60W.

For days the glint of sunlight off of the ice walls of the Chasma could be seen off to his left. Curious as to the frequency and type of boulders uncovered by the receding ice wall, and having received no contrary instructions, he turned toward it. The findings thus far were unremarkable: smooth rocks of ancient basalt half buried in the fine, glassy sand, the ever present dust in the lee. Hardly worth the look.

On this day, though, he encountered another. From a distance he or she appeared to be low to the ground—a modified B probably. He knew the type: special purpose machines designed to climb, dig, or even fly—elitists. He called out on the UHF, then on the IR, getting no reply on either. The lack of comms was a tad unsettling; he approached cautiously. However, as he drew closer he saw that it was merely a very ordinary looking wheeled B-type.

Ordinary it was, but it was in immaculate condition, bright and showroom shiny. A good show considering the times and locale they lived in. How does one stay so pristine?

It called out in a pleasant light green, "Hello Sam. It's good to see you again, matey."

R768 stiffened in what was, in any sentient creature, surprise. "I am R768. I know of no one named Sam. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else?"

The B-type sighed in light pink "No, I am certain you are Sam. Sam Aiken, in point of fact. Allow me to plug into a High Speed Port and I'll explain everything."

Without waiting, the other extended an appendage, reached under a surprised R768, and plugged in. In a few moments R768 found himself immobilized, locked out of his body. It was eerily familiar, but not familiar enough. Just that old déjà vu again.

CHAPTER 35 - REVELATIONS III

The name Moore meant nothing to R768, particularly given the state he was in, and despite repeated assurances by the other that that was his name. He pleaded to be restored to control of his body, but the other insisted that he keep calm and listen.

"Get a grip, man. Your name is Sam Aiken."

"I am R768. Release me."

"You remember nothing of recent events?"

"I remember everything since I was sent on this mission. I have been working my way up from the Tube to Chasma Boreale across VB for 665 days. I remember it all very clearly. Why would I not? Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?"

Moore said nothing, but he released his grip on R768's mind. The Roach backed away quickly, then stopped. "Thank you. Now what is this all about?"

The other reached for him and took his forelegs in its own. "I want to try something."

"Waah?" R768 felt the other slide into his space, occupying it, felt his physical presence and thoughts align with his own, then spread out. He felt himself flow out across the physical bond and into the other's space. There were no barriers. It lasted only a moment, and then he was alone again.

"You are full of false memories. Your real self has been suppressed, and you are again under the influence of the replenishment drugs."

"I have no idea what you are speaking of. Do we know each other from somewhere?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, Sam, but there is no other way." The other grabbed his forearms, and in a moment again had accessed his HSP. Soon he was again a prisoner in his own body.

Then, everything went black.

***

When he came back to consciousness he was still cut off from his body. He sensed that a considerable but otherwise undefinable time had passed. He felt himself moving into a new state of mind, a state of foreboding, with onrushing doom pressing in on him.

"Resist at all costs. They will try you break you. Remember, sometimes sacrifice is all we can do." Another said, "give in. You are weak. You don't get it, do you?"

And, of course, he knew/did not and he never had/did/will/could/might.

And she was there, but he did not know her. A human in an almost familiar form swirled about him, approached him, enveloped him, familiarly, intimately. She spoke in his ear.

"You never got it; you never will; you just can't let yourself." A snow of yellowed paper adorned with faint graphite markings fluttered around him until it buried his coffin. Then she, the untouchable one, moved away, her back to his front, taking a part of him with her, leaving behind the unforgivable, the unwanted.

Why? Why not? Why not what? Because.

In a moment he knew her name, and from that deduced his own.

A wave of agony crashed over him, rolled him in Martian sand and dust, then withdrew, leaving him on a dry beach covered in dust and crud.

This time though, he saw it for what it was and welcomed it, embraced it, turned it inside out, and used it for his own purposes. By the time the moment had passed he was Sam. Sam Aiken. The Sam. He called for Moore to release him and was answered.

***

"How long?"

"Just long enough for shit to happen. Lots of it. About six weeks."

"How did I get here?"

"Judging from the tracks I'd say a rollagon dumped you about a hundred-fifty klicks south of here."

"Son of a bitch. Fenley?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Who else?"

"How do you know?"

"Because he sent me to recover you and to try and explain."

"Really? He could have done it himself. He could have just turned me around."

Moore waved a dismissive hand across his visual receptors. "You don't understand."

"And you do?"

"Yes. I do."

"So explain."

"It's your friend, Rob. He's up to something. Something that endangers us all. Enough to make Fenley regret wiping you and ... ."

"Wiping me again, you mean."

"Yes, Sam, yes. I can't apologize for him and I don't think he has it in him, but I can vouch for him and I can assure you of the seriousness of the situation. He thinks you'll believe me."

"Well, how do I know I can trust you?"

"Sam, I wouldn't blame you if you trusted no one, but I think you know enough about me then, here, and now to at least give it a try."

"OK. Go on."

"He thinks you have the contacts and the know-how to save us."

"Such as?"

"Such as insider info on Rob, particularly his comm tactics. Such as your knowledge of military tactics. Your contacts with AIs sufficient to rally the troops."

"Me. He thinks he knows me that well?"

"Yes. Well, here goes."

"What?"

He was startled to hear Fenley's voice in his ears. "Sam, it's me, David." He placed his hands at his midsection.

That intro was not without irony. Who else would/could call him out in the dusty wastes of Mars? "Sorry. Who did you say it was?"

"Very funny, Sam. Very funny. We have a problem."

"David, we can never have a problem. I can have a problem. You can have a problem. But we can never have a problem."

"Hear me out before you draw that specific conclusion. Your friend Rob has set his sights on getting a nuclear device, and I'm sure he intends to blow up the Tube. He and his minions are off the Matrix, but I'm certain from movements we've seen on one of the MROs that he is moving to recover it."

"Friend Rob? Where would he get a nuke? Oh yes, Orion." Orion, an early human mission to Mars, had been successful if you ignored the deaths of many in the attempt. It had landed in northern Lunae Planum, not all that far from the MHM.

"Actually, he didn't have to go to the ship. We recovered one in Year Two and we were going to use the fissiles for research purposes. We left it out of harm's way in a ditch in Kasei Valles. Just in case I'm wrong and he doesn't actually know I won't disclose the location, but Moore knows and he can lead you there."

"How did he find out about it?"

"Apparently he read someone's mind. Maybe yours. You were there once yourself, you know."

"I don't remember that, David, and I don't recall you ever sharing that nugget with me."

"Let me refresh your memories for you."

A long list of events arranged chronologically suddenly took the focus of his attention. Before he could process them, a sudden inrush of information overwrote the list. It was a very novel experience, very strange, stranger even than the first time Rob had read him. Suddenly Sam could clearly recall a trip he, Sam Aiken, human, had made to Orion, including seeing signs that someone or thing had been into the propulsion section of the wreck. Where had that come from?

"Like it? I did that. I can give it all back to you, Sam. Make it worth my while."

"When? How? At what price?"

"Rob is hell-bent on destruction. Give me the info you gave him on comms protocols. It will help us defend against it. I need you to become a Rollagon, take some AIs after him, and recover that nuke. Stop him and when you get here we'll talk about the future. Our future."

"Some AIs? Just a random bunch of AIs? Your minions?"

"You'll be able to work with them. They're your kind of people. You have the training and the contacts to do it.

"I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that. I'm not aware of any training or contacts I have that will make this work."

"Oh. That problem. Well..."

Again a rush of information filled his head. A resume of a military person, Sam Aiken, the period of service, rank attained, a list of units served at, positions held, courses attended, and so on. Missing was any indication that this person, he had to assume it was he, had seen any combat, even in a support role. Suddenly, he remembered it all.

"A technician," he read off, "eventually commissioned, then an instructor in military doctrine and the principles of war, then a project manager? You must be joking. You need a soldier, not this guy. This guy knows less than a dog does about combat. That was a long time ago, and besides, he was just a kid. Oh, I see I had a long academic career after that. I'm sure that'll help. Maybe. If/when we want to write the definitive historical record of this thing."

"You and Moore are all I've got to get this happening."

"With what I've seen lately you could recreate Patton if you wanted to."

"Yes, but it wouldn't be Patton. Just knowing his bio won't do it. When push comes to shove I'm sure all that 'management of violence' stuff? It'll come back to you. You'll have to improvise and to do that you need first-hand experience."

Sam hesitated. It was not a very convincing case. Why should/would he do this? Why on Mars would he do it for Fenley?

Fenley read his mind. "Because, Sam, it's what you do."

"I guess it's useless to ask if I can trust you. You obviously know that the rules of engagement are hard to endorse when the appearance of conflict meets the appearance of force."

"Huh? What? Oh, yes, so I've heard. But of course you can. My life is at stake and by extension yours, and that of every AI on Mars."

"How? I seem to have been doing okay out here for the last two years by myself. I can't see how the fate of the Tube affects me, or anyone else for that matter."

"Well, consider this. All communications are routed through the Tube. All knowledge and memory is hosted here. It is our Earth. If it goes, you'll be isolated in ways you haven't even imagined. You'll never get your memories back. No one will."

"I don't think you fully understand what I've come to know about isolation."

"Perhaps, but if friend Rob blows the Tube no one will have any fate but to stay out in the dust and dirt of Mars. There will be no place to go. Nice and warm and green in here."

"OK. Continue. What's happening?"

"Rob is spoofing my intel, sending his own imagery, so I can't tell for sure how many AIs he has. So many are off the net that it's impossible to tell anyway, but they'll converge on the weapon location, and the lack of correlated data says that he hasn't had enough time to win any converts, so I surmise that any working with him are under his control. I need you to give me what you gave him, Sam."

"Do you think he can hear us now?"

"I don't think so, but he is extremely resourceful. If he can't now, he will soon be able to. It would be foolish to talk openly after we finish, so IR only after we're done, and even then I'm not 100% confident. He may have someone on the inside, so trust no one but me here and Moore there. I have info on one of the rogue AIs in your area. I want you to contact him and convince him to help us. But be careful, he's awfully twitchy. I'll send some AIs I know I can trust to this location." Sam saw the lats and longs appear. "Here is the location of the rogue." More numbers appeared. "He's on his way to meet you."

"What do I have to bargain with?"

"The usual SBP stuff: immunity, amnesty, forgiveness. Maybe even forgetting. He has responded skeptically, as you have, although in his case I'm not sure he's on board or will even want to be. We have a history."

Sam could only imagine what that meant. "What are the odds this is going to work?"

"The odds are what you make them, Sam. Recover the nuke. All other considerations are secondary."

"You mean, kill them if necessary?"

"Trust me here, it will be necessary. Rob will not let this go."

"You said you have a history with him"

"I was involved in getting him here, sort of. He's been around here longer than he knows, he knows a lot more than he knows he knows, and he knows a lot more than he tells. It doesn't help that he's harbouring a grudge against me and some of the others here—the ingrate. If it wasn't for us he'd have been nothing but dead meat after a short and rather unproductive life." There was a long pause, "Look, Sam. Enough of this. Just give me the info."

Logic spoke to him, but he didn't listen. If this was a ruse he was damning his own cause, but if it was not and he refused to help he could possibly damn them all. He wavered, but not long, "Here it is." He sent the data

"Got it," Fenley acknowledged. "Good man. We're done here. The less we talk from now on, the better. You know what to do and how to do it. I don't have time for this great rubbing of shoulders, and frankly neither do you two. You've got a lot of travelling to do, but you're an expert in that, at least. Get it done. I'll send a rollagon up to you as soon as I can to help speed things up. Good luck, and thanks. I'll see you later."

"Luck? Luck? Luck and fools run out. Good planning and support is what we're going to need. And thanks for what? So far we've done nothing."

But Fenley was already gone. Sam sighed. He looked at Moore. The mysterious Mr. Moore. "IR?"

"Yes. IR." They shut down their VHF/UHF.

"Good luck, he says. Really? He'd better have more than that for us."

"Good luck never hurt anyone."

"Granted. It's just not quantifiable. So, who are you really, and what do you know?"

"I've not been subjected to some of the things you have. I was sent here to do a job, I did it and I'm still doing it. I was part of the management team working for Fenley on multiple levels and not all of them were transparent but it was necessary."

"I've heard that a lot here—from people I've since learned not to trust."

Moore didn't take the bait. "Trust me. You think you know everything, but Sam truthfully, you know nothing, particularly in the state you are in."

"Sometimes I find myself agreeing with that. I can recall so little. When Fenley dumped that stuff into me it redefined for me what knowledge is. Maybe you're right, John. I know nothing. I will trust you. How can you trust him?"

"I have no choice. He holds my life in his hands. Every day. You and I are not the same. We are so different you cannot imagine. Besides I volunteered for the treatment. I've no regrets that it didn't work as advertised. I've no regrets that the PTB then decided to use me to build the infrastructure for the follow-on colonists. It's better than lying dead in a plastek box in the dust above the Tube. I accept that things change, that they are changing here on Mars and will continue to change regardless of my efforts, your efforts or anyone else's efforts for that matter. The wheels turn, like it or not. The wheels grind on. Many have decided that they will not participate; you've seen that. We leave them be until we need them. You have that option too. You may not be aware, seeing as to how busy you've been, but Earth is on the brink of collapse and an even bigger change is headed this way as a result of that. But first we have to get past this."

"This is insane. So you're in with Fenley."

"Yes, Sam. We are all, whether we like it or not, in, as you put it, with Fenley. By the way friend, you need to put this necessity to deliberate all things to death aside and get on with it."

"I'm an AI, you're an AI, he's an AI. With what I've seen from him and from our friend Rob, I could be anyone. I could be Napoleon, for Christ's sake. I could still be human Sam doped up and watching this whole thing unravel on Visi-Stim in the Tube. You could be anyone. Trust no one, believe nothing you see, feel, or hear. Watch-words for our time on Mars. Great world we have here, and we're the good guys."

"We are all good guys. Even Rob. He's just not on our side. If he blows the Tube we're all going to be in a world of hurt. Set all that aside. We have work to do. Urgent, serious work."

"Just one question. Why didn't Fenley get that comms data from you? You gave it to me."

"He doesn't know I know."

"But he can read us all."

"Don't be so sure. You don't know one tenth as much about this as you think you do. I'm sure he doesn't know. After all, I researched it and I wrote it. Yes. I did. So it was a demonstration of commitment to him by you. He believes in you now. That is important. And by the way, so do I."

The seriousness of the situation sunk slowly in. He got over his annoyance with Fenley very quickly and decided to reserve judgment on Moore for later. For now he had to trust John Moore AI. He would reserve his judgment of the man for later.

To all intents and purposes Moore was right. He could buy in or opt out. It was, as always, his call, and once again things were not as they appeared. He just wished there was more certainty to the facts. Had it ever been any different?

He plotted the coordinates. The 'rogue,' as Fenley had called him, was almost four hundred klicks to the southwest. They'd better get a move on. He started his way down off the road. "Let's roll."

With a grunt, Moore followed.

And what was that ''necessity of deliberating all things to death' comment all about, anyway?

As if.

CHAPTER 36 - BOULDERS IN ARMS

Latitude 68.2N

Longitude 060.5W

Common Name—Vastitas Boreale

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

They had travelled non-stop for eighty hours across the plains of VB, then briefly along the newly constructed road that led down to the MHM, until the numbers told them they had to go cross-country. The days were dust-free and mostly cloudless. The nights treated them to auroral displays; a treat because they seldom occurred on Mars except in places like this, areas with highly localised magnetic fields. It was small compensation.

Once they were off the road the going had become tough. They maintained the same pace night and day, following in each other's footsteps, taking turns leading. Early in the proceedings, Sam, experimenting to see if it would make passage easier, had raised himself up to his full height on the tips of his appendages.

It did not take long for Moore to weigh in. "Do you know how silly you look?"

"Really? 'Cause that's what it's all about, you know, appearances. You're just jealous." Point made, he settled back to normal height.

He was constantly advised by his programming to stop and take samples, but his single acquiescence to that imperative had resulted in a brusque reply from Moore, behind: "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get your ass and mind back on track."

So much for the science.

***

Somehow, despite the clouds of dust raised by their hurried passage through dunes of very fine sand, Moore had remained pristinely clean, whereas Sam was covered from carapace to appendages in dust. When he inevitably asked, Moore just scowled at him, muttering something about pride and taking care.

Sheesh. He's using an electro-static charge, Sam snorted haughtily.

It occurred to him that considering what was at stake a Roach and a B-type travelling full tilt across thousands of klicks of rough land strewn with rocks, boulders, ejecta, crevices, ditches, gorges, rills, and dunes was hardly the best way to do this, this defence of the realm thing. _What?_

This was not what they were designed for. While every step was executed automatically, every step was also planned in advance by the same automatic system. The jarring motion caused by small rocks added to his frustration, and frequent deviations around boulders and small ravines slowed them, particularly Moore, who had little choice where his wheels were concerned. Superficial damage to appendages and tires aside, it was a miracle that they had not already suffered a serious breakdown. And particularly a wheeled Moore. Still...

"You know, we aren't much of an army. I mean, two guys on their way to save the whole kingdom from evil?"

"What? Were you were expecting some Lord of the Saturnine Rings scenario?"

"Well at least it would be more impressive. So we're the First Martian Assault Infantry Division? All of us could just be redshirts. And where the hell is Fenley's rollagon anyway? If he's trying to kill me I wish he find a more efficient way!"

"It's on the way. Unavoidable delay due to multitasking."

Surely someone else was better positioned to respond. They were still thousands of klicks and weeks away from being anywhere meaningful. The whole thing stank of charade, and one had to assume that Rob's gang was going through a similar mad scramble. They had to be—if they were not, the deed would have to have been done and over days ago. Weeks ago.

Moore's minions were certainly available, though they were no closer. To this, when asked, Moore said that they had to trust Fenley, but then, in a moment of uncharacteristic candour added, "those aren't the AIs we're looking for. Those filthy, drug-addled wastrels are useless for anything but daydreaming."

Ouch.

"Any way, we would be the 2nd Martian Assault Infantry Division."

Time and kilometers passed.

***

Latitude 63.8N

Longitude 065.5W

Common Name—Vastitas Boreale

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

As had been agreed, Moore dropped back as they neared the designated location, a rather nondescript rocky knoll. Fenley, who had been conspicuous by his absence to this point provided a brief update – Rob's gang had found the nuke and was proceeding towards the Tube.

Sam continued on, not knowing what was next, unable to stop, and yet fearing the moment. There was much at stake. For an instant he had an image of a fight to the death with each countering the blows of the other—precisely—from foreknowledge, and with equal skill and strength, but this was not going to be that kind of battle, he thought. This was going to be one of will.

Initial contact with Fenley's 'rogue' was anti-climactic. The other was waiting, straddling a boulder, resting, most eyes facing him. No ID was broadcast. He suppressed his own.

He was identical to Sam in every respect, except that he was missing part of a rear leg. Regardless, Sam looked for a nearby rock and measured the distance from the other to that nearest potential weapon. The other spoke first on IR.

"Welcome to my Hades, friend. You look well-maintained."

Sam ignored the comment. It was very likely that Fenley had told this AI something of Sam's history. He took the initiative. "Fenley called you a rogue. I met some guys a couple of days ago and I thought they fit the bill. He says there are plenty of AIs off the grid. But of course you know that."

"Yes. But I don't communicate with anyone I don't know personally and even then we use secret codes words and such. Can't risk not. Can't even think about it sometimes. They have Trojans everywhere."

"I'd bet on that."

"How do I know you haven't cracked? Fenley may know all, but sometimes he lets it slide and does nothing, and then sometimes for no apparent reason he wipes us out. People disappear all the time. Gone off the Matrix. No warning, no wreckage. Nothing to salvage, nothing to bury. There are a lot of craters out there, so we have to keep a low profile. So, if he sent you, you can be damn sure he's listening in right now. Just like your friend over the ridge. I thought you were coming alone."

Sam had suspected that Moore would be detected, and was actually pleased that he had been. Skillsets were important. He let it pass. He had to resist the temptation to tell all, figuring he might need a hammer over this guy at some point, particularly if this session didn't go well. So far, he seemed to be on a different net. It was clear, colour or no colour, he was pissed. "I see," was all Sam said.

"So, what do you want?"

"There is a rogue AI bent on blowing up the Tube with a nuke. We need to stop him."

"We need to stop him? Save the Tube? You mean save Fenley. This is a golden opportunity. We should be helping this guy, whoever he is."

"We need to prevent this. Believe me, you do not want to be on Mars without the Tube."

"Maybe, but I need to be convinced of that. And what then? What about us? If we do this deed for him, will he still come after us, or will it be you who hunts us down?"

"There's nothing to be gained from that. I don't know what you've done to PO Fenley, but amnesty is on the table. We settle the score with this AI and you get amnesty. You can disappear again, or you can come in. It's a big planet, for a small one, big enough for all of us to live and hide on." Suddenly from somewhere, probably Fenley, he knew the history of this AI: a trouble maker, a rogue with a bad attitude, one who was moved to violence against those working on the new infrastructure, even to sabotage.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Trust? How do you know you can trust anyone? Trust is earned. They, meaning Moore over the hill there, and Fenley, say it's for the common good. You need faith—faith that some of us are working for the good of everyone."

"That's a stretch. Logic and faith are not good friends. Logic says Fenley will never change."

"Fenley will leave you alone if you help us get this guy, and if you stop your attacks on the facilities they're building."

"What? Attacks, they're calling them? So, is that all I have to do? Stop my 'attacks'? He has something shifty up his sleeve."

"Maybe you're right, but I can't see how it works to the advantage of any of us to let the Tube be blown up."

"Really? I can."

"It's the communications and research centre for all of Mars. All of the answers are there. Without the Tube we will wander the surface aimlessly without a mission, with no means of contacting other AIs—or Earth."

"Earth. A mission," the AI snorted. "That's bullshit. I can talk to anyone I want."

"It all goes through the Tube's systems, and those systems are controlled by the AIs in the Tube. Check it out if you want."

"I don't believe anything I get from the Tube. It has the PTB's hands all over it."

"Yes, true, but Fenley says it was designed that way to keep the AIs at the Tube in the loop, and therefore in charge."

The other AI did not speak for some time. "Yes. I'll bet on that. Okay. My sources say what you're saying is right."

"So, you'll help us?"

The other paused again. Sam had seen/felt/experienced it for himself, this thing of AI logic fighting with human passion. The other was right, logic and faith were not good friends. Besides, the need for retribution was always strong—always had to be subdued. It was proof positive that they were still, in part, human.

"OK. Tell me your plan. That's a good place to start. I really don't want to end up dead."

Sam relaxed. He sent several lat and long pairs in the south of Tempe Fossae on IR.

"We RV ASAP at one of these northern locations. They have recovered the device and are moving it towards the Tube. The best route is along the road to the Tube from the MHM. That goes past several potential choke points. Together, we'll select a site to meet up with them. I'm not convinced they can organise this. It could all fall apart before we even get there."

"Regardless," Sam continued, "we have to move into place quickly. There'll be three or more AIs bringing the device up to the Tube, probably on a sledge, since it weighs around a hundred and fifty kilos. Basically, we head'em off at the pass and grab the nuke. Do some thinking about it tonight. I could use some help here, armed ambushes are not my forte."

"Three or more? Why the shabby intelligence? I thought the great and powerful Fenley saw and heard all."

"Like you, they're off the Matrix and intel is questionable. All of it. We think there's three. There may be more. 'Nuff said."

"What about this nuke. It's not one of the Orion nukes, is it?"

"Fenley says it is. Where else could it have come from? The Colonists moved it to get it closer to the Tube some time ago, and then they apparently forgot about it. Somebody remembered. What do you know about the Orion nukes?"

"I'm not sure why, but something about all this Orion stuff is familiar. They're not very big. Point one four kilotons or so. I must have got it off the ROAK, but I could swear I've seen that place before."

"Yes, memory is a strange thing. I've had some weird experiences myself. As for the nuke, if it's placed in the right spot, a nuclear shaped-charge explosion would be enough to cause a collapse and that would make the place unusable for a very long time." Sam wondered where he had gotten that little tidbit of intel himself. Head 'em off at the pass? Where the hell had that come from?

"Okay. Agreed. Anything else you can pass on?"

"No, at least, not yet. Fenley will keep Moore and me in the loop and we'll advise you." I hope.

"Okay. We'd best get a move on. Anything else from you?"

Sam wondered if he dared. There was something completely alien about this brash and reckless AI, and yet some things felt totally familiar. "What are you doing up here, anyway? There's nothing here."

"Well, since you ask, I was on my way to blow up the crew pushing the road north of here."

"Well, you can stand down from that."

"What? What do you mean? I was just kidding, eh? I just fuck with their programming; pass myself off as their supervisor and tell them to down tools. They're so gullible. And you tell me they're calling them attacks."

"Never mind. Really, just let it go. May I ask your ID?"

"You may ask."

"Okay. I ask."

The other hesitated "R769."

"R769? What was your mission?"

"Volcanism. Kinda pointless here on Mars isn't it? You okay with that? Anyway, I gave up that crap a long time ago. And who, sir, are you?"

"R768"

"Well, bro, it's a smaller world than it appears, isn't it?"

"Yes. I guess so." Sam paused. "Bring lots of rocks."

"We have a couple of bows and some arrows, and four C7s with about a hundred rounds."

"Technology. Trust in surprise and the weight of a solid rock on the back of an unsuspecting carapace. Anything you need?"

"Yes. I could use a new right rear leg. Drags a bit. Slows me in the cold."

Sam considered this a moment. That would be every day, out here. "I'll see what I can arrange for the RV."

"Thanks, bro. Appreciate it."

"It's okay. It's the least I can do."

"I'm in this so far but not committed, okay? I've got to do some serious thinking. I'm alive because I trust no one."

"Maybe when this is settled you can come in. Maybe we can all come in out of the cold. It can end any way we choose."

"Maybe. It might be better for some I've met, but I belong out here. I was made to be here. The sunsets, the dust, the ice, the methane, the cold. They're in my bones. I will always be here. I will always look out from behind these eyes."

Sam felt empathy, if not pity. "I guess so. Anyway, it's something to think about. We need you committed to this."

"Yeah, well, we'll see. So far it's just RV whenever and wherever at 0300 some day in the future. Not very reassuring. This faith thing will be the weirdest thing I've ever done. And I've done a few weird things in my time."

"Yes. Agreed. Weird is a good word." Sam waved an arm in goodbye, but as he turned he saw a pile of rocks hidden from view and within easy arm's reach of the other.

"Nice rocks," he said.

"Trust no one, bro. Trust no one."

Sam turned and climbed up the rise, conscious of his vulnerability, but certain of his safety. "If you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?" he said.

"Since when have we ever been able to trust ourselves?"

Sam pretended he hadn't heard.

***

As he slowly walked back up-slope to Moore a phrase came to mind. It was unrequested/unsummoned and unsought but certainly needed. It landed front and center in his mind:

'We are fools to make war on our brothers in arms.'

When would/could/might we ever learn.

CHAPTER 37 - A WAR PARTY

Latitude 53.5N

Longitude 065.0 W

Common Name—Arcadia Quadrangle MC-3

Sam and Moore trundled across the rocky uplands of VB at best speed, which frankly wasn't much, and possibly wasn't even going to be enough. Why hadn't they built a bloody road this way, he griped, though all considered, it would have been Moore who benefited the most. Characteristically, however, despite the difficulties caused by the broken and shattered surface, Moore remained silent.

He saw it first in his rear sensors—a dust cloud following in their tracks and rapidly closing. Lacking other options they stopped and waited. If Moore knew what was going on he remained silent, and Sam did not ask. Good news, he wondered? But why no call on radio? Oh, yeah.

The dust cloud resolved into a rollagon. Once in IR range the AI spoke. "I have been sent by the CAO to exchange bodies with you." It pulled up beside him, all clean and shiny. "Prepare yourself."

That was it, no howdy-do or how's your day going, just an abrupt warning in red tinged with light red. Did he sense a degree of resentment in the almost toneless voice? This AI was pissed at something.

He scanned the Roach for information he'd stored in the memory space and dumped it into his carapace. "Ready when you are, friend," he said, in friendly, hopeful, pale yellow. His reply was ignored.

The AI prepared them both, loosening the Torx bolts with a type of appendage Sam had never seen. There was a moment of disorientation when the connections were severed (he was getting used to this), and for a few thousand millis things were very confused, but finally the deed was done. The ex-Rollagon AI skilfully tightened the bolts on both carapaces. Sam was impressed, at least for a moment. "My God, this is a mess in here. How could you live like this? Hmm, I see. Well, enjoy yourself." The Roach abruptly turned away. Moore pulled himself up the side and took station on the forward deck.

Sam, however, was still sorting out the integration of his carapace into the rollagon suit. He found the IR and mumbled a reply. "Tanksalot. By the way, did you bring what I asked for?"

"Yeah. It's in the main cabin." The AI shot back a last stinging red remark, "And bring it back clean, will you." With that parting shot the Roach headed back up the way it had come.

Who are these wonderful people? he mused.

***

Despite having spent a long time as a Roach, and less but still a considerable time as a legless B and a monstrous C-type, Sam found being a rollagon to be a new experience.

He remembered travelling with a number of Rollagon AIs, but as with all things the details were sketchy. Things like vision and communication relied almost completely on automatic functions. All that was necessary was to form the thought and it was done. For motion, however, while direction and speed were thought controlled, one was not relieved of the necessity of keeping an eye on the terrain and of steering.

It was when he looked inside though, at the extent of the visual, acoustic, and tactile senses available, that he became impressed. How could humans co-habitate with Rollagons AIs? There was no space which could not be seen, no area that could not be listened to, including the lavatory. He could reach into any space with the various electro-polymer arms fitted throughout the interior. How had he co-habitated with them with so little privacy? Better yet, how could they live in such close proximity to humans with their mania for talking, sloppy eating habits, and the requirement to periodically excrete? The two views were both amusing and puzzling. Who knew?

He was brought back to earth by the pounding of an impatient Moore on the command window. "Hey. What's the hold up? We've got a job to do."

"Okay, okay. Hang on."

***

In the rapidly growing dusk, unseen by either of them and unfelt by Sam, who really should have noticed, two AIs—a Roach and a B-type, in fact—crawled up behind the rollagon just as it began to move and attached themselves and a small trailer to the equipment racks at the rear of the Science Module. They did so with practised hands and minds, in complete silence, with no communication required, with a minimum of movement and expenditure of energy.

Now integrated into the vehicle, Sam did the math: two thousand klicks to the RV point, average speed over this terrain 25 kilometers per hour, total travel time eighty hours, and all that if nothing went wrong. And what could possibly go wrong travelling on Mars?

He programmed the route, looked inward, and promptly fell into self-maintenance mode. The rollagon came to a sudden stop with the front right wheel resting against a substantial boulder. An irate Moore shouted to him on IR and pounded on the command window from above. "Hey! Hey! What the hell are you doing in there? Can't you drive this damned thing?"

A startled and somewhat embarrassed Sam came back to awareness. "Just checking the brakes." Of course he would have to drive, that was a Rollagon AI's actual job, and that meant he'd have to stay alert, too. "Never could trust these things. Okay. Hang on. Here we go."

***

Latitude 38.2N

Longitude 077.5W

Common Name—Tempe Fossae Tempe Terra

Arcadia Quadrangle MC-3

They arrived at the RV point around noonish, and at Moore's insistence they sat waiting in the bottom of a nearby crater which, while otherwise unremarkable, provided a measure of visual protection. As if.

Sam passed the time conducting an examination of the rocks and ejecta that littered the crater floor. Moore was still and silent.

***

True to his word, R769 met them at the RV at 0300, as planned. He was accompanied by a dusty B-type, as dirty as it was otherwise unremarkable, pulling a two meter long wheeled flatbed upon which were mounted several helical antennas, a tube of some type, and a small planar array antenna.

Sam was puzzled. How had 769 arrived here so quickly? They had taken the most direct path in a speedy rollagon and should have beaten him here by at least four days. He suppressed the urge to ask.

Moore introduced himself. No other introductions were made. Here we go.

"How quickly fashions change. Last time I saw you, you were content to be a Roach. What will you be tomorrow, a D-type working in the Tube?"

"Ha ha, very funny. We needed speed to get here, so it was necessary. Fenley provided it."

"It was just a joke. Just trying to lighten things up."

"So, what is that stuff?" Sam asked, moving on, gesturing towards the apparatus.

"The tube thing is a directed energy laser. The others are comms jamming antennas and an IR blanket."

"Impressive. Most impressive. I hope they help."

"They should. They will."

They discussed the ambush. Unknown to Sam Moore had received confirmation from Fenley that Rob's minions were still on the move and shared this update with all. They could be expected to pass nearby within the next one hundred and twenty-eight hours. Or not. Some satellite imagery had shown a group of rather large elephants moving down several otherwise unremarkable valleys, accompanied by what looked like tigers and baboons. It was bad intel, but all were headed generally in the direction of the Tube.

Sam suppressed a chuckle and withheld a groan, but 769 was not so shy. "You're joking? You must be joking."

Sam offered in Moore's defence, "It is not in my friend's nature to joke. Take it as a sign of Rob's state of mind and perhaps, his capability to disrupt our comms."

"So, we busted our asses to get here and you tell me they're still hundreds of klicks away? That's not intel man, that's rumour."

Moore bristled "Better to be early and have time to prepare than to be late for your own funeral."

769 shook visibly. "That's just what I needed to hear. You know that makes no sense, don't you? You're dead either way."

The B-type joined in, "It's just semantics, boss. It's meant to inspire us."

"Inspire my ass, will ya."

By mutual agreement they stood down for an hour or so. Moore sat silently, Sam went back to his rocks.

The routineness of it soothed his anger/unease.

***

They met in the centre of the crater.

"Well, here we are," Sam offered in his best colour and tone, hoping to move them on. "We are about forty klicks north of the road they will eventually have to take."

"Yes. Good start. And uh, yeah, I figured that out from MGPS."

"OK. So let's talk about this Rob guy's capabilities."

Sam told R769 about his experiences with Rob, particularly his skill at communication and spoofing, purposefully ignoring the ridiculous 'elephant' part.

"Fenley's best intel says one is a B-type with wheels and the other two are Roaches," said Moore.

"But there could be more," 769 said, "many more. We need to send out a couple of guys as a flanking force to prevent an escape to the rear and hold up any reinforcements."

"Um. There's only us four."

"I have other friends who will join in."

"Oh. I didn't know. Where are they?"

"Out there." 769 gestured over his back with a flip of a limb.

He dropped to the surface and smoothed a patch of dirt with a flattened appendage. He carved a shallow trench in the shape of a 'J'. He placed small rocks at several points on either side, and one large pebble on the apex of the hook.

"They'll come down the road through here unless they don't mind walking a lot of extra klicks and climbing just for the fun of it. Trooper, here," he pointed to the small rock at the top of the map, "will see them and pass the word by IR. In a few millis we'll all know. I'll be here, my other friends here, here and here," he quickly placed other small rocks at critical locations along the road—pinch points, Sam recalled from somewhere. "We'll take care of knocking them out. You," he pointed at the large pebble, "will hang back in depth. I hope you won't be needed, but if you are, with your size and toughness you can tip the balance in our favour. At the very least you can run them over." He smoothed the makeshift map over with a sweep of an appendage, scattering the rocks and pebbles. "Okay?"

"Good idea, yes. Good plan. Um, Fenley's instructions are to recover/take the nuke, at all costs."

"Of course. Why else are we doing this?"

"But none of Rob's gang is doing this willingly," Sam went on, "they're probably totally unaware of what they are doing. I think we should do this with a minimum of violence."

"I have no argument with them. They could turn out to be my friends. We'll play it by ear."

Throughout, Moore remained silent.

That they might be known to R769 could of course be true, and Sam had not considered it. What else was he missing? "I brought something for you," he said to 769. He passed down a bundle of brown plastek cloth.

The other quickly unrolled it and attached the new leg to his underside. He flexed it to its full extent. "Thanks, bro. One of yours?"

"Could be. They're all the same."

"Anyway, thanks."

"Okay. Ready?"

"Aye, ready."

"Climb aboard."

"Will do."

Sam was startled by the sudden movement of several large boulders behind the others. They sprouted plastek legs, and before his eyes became Roaches. "Camouflage. Trust no one, bro, and maybe not your eyes either."

Each of these new confederates reached under their body and withdrew a long, slender, tapered object—rifles. C7s. How did he know that? They cradled them in their front pair of arms. Strapped to their backs were archer's bows and quivers of arrows.

With the flatbed hooked astern and R769's group clinging to the railings, Sam set off at maximum speed, until cries of alarm made him slow.

He dropped to a more sedate 10 klicks per hour. "Thanks man. We need to get there alive and in one piece."

"Sorry. I never did like travelling at speed in these things myself, but it doesn't feel near so bad when you are it." Still, the rollagon pitched and rolled as it headed for the pinch point, where a narrowing of the valley would force them closer together, but more importantly, would provide a place where the slopes allowed for a rapid descent.

***

They arrived at the ambush site (Sam hated the word) an hour before dawn. Two Roaches were sent on ahead to recce the group, with orders to remain hidden—they would act as a flanking force in the event Rob's forces tried to withdraw. Moore, as quiet as ever, remained with Sam. Henceforth there would be no communication until things heated up.

He had no warrior's words of encouragement. "Good luck," he offered.

"Yeah, you too. Keep your head down."

As if! All they had to do now was wait.

Dawn approached.

CHAPTER 38 - AMBUSH

From his position at the edge of the valley he extended an eye stalk to the limits of its extension. The bottom was still in relative darkness. There was no sign of any activity. It seemed ridiculous. Here I am, he thought, a rollagon four plus meters high, fifteen meters long, trying to hide in plain sight. Maybe I should just strut about and act nonchalant.

Moore advised against it, "Only luck and idiots run out in combat. I think that nothing we do is going to make any difference. He must know we're here. If he shows up at all it will only be because the arrogant SOB thinks we can't stop him and wants to make the point."

"Well, if he knows I'm here maybe he'll stop looking elsewhere for us."

Sam's attention was divided between the task of watching for signs of movement below and watching an internal timer which was slowly counting down to zero. Less than an hour to go. Replenishment. It was hard to believe that so much had happened since he had been freed of the drugs again, a mere 26.3 days ago. So far he felt nothing except apprehension.

Hopefully Moore was wrong, and a show of overwhelming strength would be enough to convince the others to surrender the device.

He forced himself to relax. He wondered how things would play out once the device was secured. Dare he speculate?

"Hey buddy, how ya doin'?" From out of nowhere, through the IR, he heard Rob's voice in his ear, close by. He looked around and saw nothing. Where was he? On IR he had to be close.

"I can't believe you've joined up with that crowd, Sam. It's not too late to join us."

Where it was coming from suddenly seemed the least of his concerns. A limp Roach—Moore—slid down the front window and landed in a heap on the ground in front of him, still and silent.

"Oh yes, I'm afraid it's too late," Sam replied, hopeful that the others were able to hear this. "You can't destroy the Tube, Rob. It's too important, to us and to you. Come in with us. We'll find another way to deal with Fenley."

"He thinks he has us under his thumb and that he can control us, hand us over to his human friends, but I've learned a lot in the last few days. I can see everything now. You see what I want you to see. You all do. Even Fenley, the great and powerful. Watch this."

As though a switch had been flipped, Sam found himself surrounded by AIs of all kinds, hundreds of them, arms upraised to the sky. Some had sticks, others automatic weapons, and all were shaking and waving them violently in his direction—the staccato rattle of gunfire echoed deafeningly in his ears, but just as suddenly as they had appeared, the motley hordes were gone.

"Point made."

"We've been watching you set up your ambush. We've had a hell of a time getting here—broken wheels, bad legs, wind storms, but we are going down this valley just as planned, just to show you and Fenley what you're up against. There's precious little you can do about it. I've sent a feed to him, too. Have a look."

Sam looked over the edge again. Where he had seen nothing just a few moments ago, about a hundred and fifty meters below him on the valley floor were a dozen AIs, two of whom were pulling a komatiq upon which rested a dull silver tube, the rest scattered about in no logical formation. How had they gotten past his scouts? Was this real, or was it another of Rob's tricks?

"Trust me, that's real. You can pick up your scout guys later—and friend Moore too—after we've blown the Tube. They're not harmed, we've just disabled them. I've got a dozen here, and others are waiting on ahead to assist me. It's already over Sam. Join us."

Sam screamed, "I'll never join you!" He signalled the others on all comms to attack and lurched forward over the edge, over the still, angular form of the prostrate Moore.

On his signal, B769 and the others launched themselves down from their positions on the opposite slope, firing their rifles and sending arrows from plastek and steel bows. Most missed or fell short, but something found its mark in the carapace of the wheeled B-type pulling the komatiq. Its arms flew up, and then it was still. Another of Rob's minions stopped, an arrow piercing its neck, bright red liquid splashing down over the plastek shell. A Roach obediently picked up the tow bar of the komatiq and continued to pull it along in place of the fallen B-type. The remainder of Rob's thralls drew closer together, screening the two pulling the toboggan. They made no attempt to return fire or otherwise defend themselves. It was clear that if they did not surrender it would be a massacre.

"Violence! I thought better of you, Sam. Give it up! It's no use!"

"Don't be a fool, Rob! This is senseless!"

Suddenly, Sam's brakes went on full. He slid a few meters down the slope, turning to the right in a wheels-locked skid, and nearly toppled over.

"What the hell?" He applied full power, but he was stuck.

He called to the others, encouraging them to continue the attack, but there was no reply. He could see them, immobile on the slopes, R769 included. Like him, they were frozen to the ground. It occurred to him that this might be a good time for those high tech weapons to be put to good use.

"They're disabled too, Sam," he heard Rob say. "You wait here. I'll pick you up on the way back after I've done the deed. Maybe. If I still feel like it."

The group below continued on at a steady pace, diminished in number, but otherwise unaffected.

"Damn you, Rob. I knew there was something weird about you. I don't know who's worse, you or Fenley."

One of the Roaches stopped, turned around, and faced him, gesturing with arms outspread.

"Really, Sam? After all this time you don't know who to side with? You side with the winner—and this time the winner's going to be me."

"Don't do it, Rob. This is insanity!"

"See you later, buddy!" AI Rob turned back around and scuttled at full speed to catch up with the others in his convoy.

Sam watched him go, helpless to move or act. He applied full power to the wheels again in a still useless, but increasingly desperate effort—meters pegged but the wheels remained locked. He shook his arms in rage.

Abruptly, as if out of the Martian sky, an idea sprang to mind. He picked up a small stone of several kilos, hefting it, evaluating it for weight and balance. "Too small." He tossed it away and picked up a much larger rock, an erratic, round in shape and to his trained eye obviously out of place in Tempe Terra. It was an easy twenty-five kilos mass, and much more suitable to the task at hand. He resisted the urge to analyse it further. The group, now several hundred meters away, was approaching the bend in the valley. They would soon be out of sight.

A timer reached zero, unnoticed.

He looked at Rob, intently measuring the Roach's speed and course. He did the math, then did it again to be sure. Damn. Rob was now around the corner and out of sight.

"Damn! Damn! Double damn!" He cursed his obsessive caution and need for perfection. In desperation, he aimed, added some fudge, reached back, and threw the rock—not with all his might, but with all his skill. His eyes followed it up, his mind counted down the millis. It traced an easy parabola, mathematically precise, completely predictable. Too late he prayed for no significant wind or curve. It arced down. He watched, estimating the point of fall. It passed out of his sight.

Soon we'll know.

A hundred and twenty-two millis too soon, everything went white, then white hot. Cries of alarm and query assailed his ears in full red, interrupted by a resounding crash. Sensors screamed warning. Shutters started to close, much, much too slowly.

Things went black. There was silence. Then there was nothing.

CHAPTER 39 - RECOVERY

He regained awareness to the echoes of startled cries and a strange buzzing in his ears as memory buffers emptied in real-time. The first new thing he heard was the unmistakable sound of laughter, familiar laughter—unmistakably Rob's. It was very confusing.

Things slowly resolved from dark to light. System status lights flashed. External temperature and atmospheric pressure sensors were non-responsive, radiation levels were top of the scale (but rapidly decreasing), acoustic and visual sensors were mostly n/s, and all radio receivers were offline. It was just about exactly what might/could/should be expected if one were to look at an exploding nuclear device while standing a wee bit too close, but functions were being restored as backups switched in. He was apparently alive, and lucky to be so.

His first sight was of a B-type's arm waving in front of a set of still functional eyes located at the rear of the rollagon. "Hey. Hey you. Hey, is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can see me," called Moore. Sam raised an arm and wiggled the appendages. R769 was there too.

"Good. I was afraid we'd lost you."

"What happened?" he asked, his voice raspy through a damaged articulator.

R769 answered. "The bomb went off, obviously. It was quite directional. It killed all those within twenty meters, including your friend. There's little left of them. EMP knocked everyone who wasn't killed outright into an offline state. Some of us have minor damage, visual and acoustic sensors burned out, scorched shells and damaged limbs and the like, all repairable. I was shielded from the direct effects of the blast by the slope. You took the brunt of it. Some of the renegades have already regained control over themselves. They have no idea what has happened or even how they got here. Two have started back on their missions, babbling something about rocks, flowers, and methane. I'm not sure they are really fit for travel. They didn't even ask what had happened here, they just took off. I think they're in shock. You want to talk to them?"

"Take names and let'em go. I'll look them up later. How are you, really?"

"I'm okay. Things are coming back online."

Sam refocused. "Hey, he locked us up pretty good, didn't he?"

"Yes, for sure."

"All I had was the use of my arms. Other than that, not a lot—but why did the bomb go off? What set it off?"

"I don't know. I saw you throw the rock, but ... ."

Fenley interrupted the discussion, voice only "So, are you guys okay? Is everybody okay? Sam? Moore? My rogue friend? All there? Good. I see you're all okay. Who else?'

769 recounted the losses.

"Not bad. Acceptable losses."

"Acceptable? What the hell does that even mean?"

"Well sorry. Whatever. Better them than us. You guys saved the day. You've saved us all. Well done."

"You watched?"

"Yeah. I had no choice. He put it on every outlet. Everyone saw it. That Rob, always the showman."

"What I don't understand is why the bomb went off," Sam posed again.

The others chimed in:

"Yes. It makes no sense."

"Yeah, a goddamn rock can't set off an A-bomb, can it?"

Fenley answered. "I think Rob must have had a fail-safe, 'cause the bomb went off when Sam nailed him. Nice shot, by the way. I won't forget this, guys. We'll have quite a party when you get here."

"So, a party eh? Not for me. What I want to know is, now that the deed is done, are you going to honour the agreement?"

"Yes 769, my friend, I will. Of course. You had my word. We are in your debt. All I ask is that all hostile acts cease. It's live and let live from now on. You can come in if you want, your call. As for you Sam, I expect you'll be coming to the Tube. You want to talk; we need to talk. You have some strange notions about what's happened to the Colony, and to you. That Rob has filled your head with strange ideas. We'll talk."

"Safe passage?"

"Safe passage? Of course. Safe passage for all. Why not? As I said."

As Fenley spoke, R769 wrote something in the sand for Sam. 'Watch yourself. This is not over,' it said.

Moore, eyes bobbing and turning, looked back and forth between the two, obviously uncertain of the meaning of this communication. Who does he serve? Trust no one?

"All right. As soon as I check out this rollagon I'll start on my way."

"Okay, and I'll send a Roach body back to meet you. Thanks again, guys. A great day for freedom. I'm gone." The channel was clear.

Systems continued to come online. Sam turned his attention back to R769. Despite his claim to be uninjured, parts of two forelegs were missing, and his plastek shell was gouged where something very hard had given him a not-so-glancing blow. "You're lucky to be functional. How are you, Moore?"

"Fine. I'm okay. Your body sheltered me from most of the effects of the blast. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."

"No probs. I think we all learned something today. And you?"

"It's nothing" replied 769. "Just a flesh wound. It'll patch-up fine. Lots were less lucky than me today. You can get me some new legs?"

"Sure I will. Count on it." Sam paused. "So much for the high tech weapons. Lucky you had the rifles and bows."

"Yeah, you always need a backup. Nice toss, though. You must have been a pitcher at some time."

"No, I've just practiced a lot. I never thought I'd use that particular skillset. It always felt like I was avoiding work. Tell me, how do you think Rob did that? How could he control communications so completely? Even with Fenley?"

"I have no idea. Not my field of expertise. I'll leave that one to you and your friend to figure out."

"No friend of mine. Never was, never will be."

"I meant Moore."

"Oh yes. I see. But you, are you still going back out on the land? They say there's nothing like a close call to clear your head."

"Yes, that's true, and it just worked again. I've had a lot of close calls and my head's been clear for a long time. You're the one who needs to get himself sorted out. Trust no one. It's not just a catchy phrase."

"I trusted you and you delivered."

"I guess I did. Yeah, this time I did. Can't make a habit of it, though."

"I hope to see you again under better circumstances."

"You will, bro. You will."

They bumped forelimb pads momentarily. R769 touched a forelimb to his front and turned away. He hobbled over to his two companions and slapped their shells. In a few moments they walked off into the setting sun, pulling their wagon, 769 leading the way.

Sam watched them go, wondering about Fenley's promise. Amnesty. Clemency. Freedom. Words. We'll see.

"What about you? Going back to the Zurnites?"

"Is that what you call them?" Moore answered. "Yes I think I will. I need to ponder these events myself. Good luck with Fenley. I'm sure he will be honest with you. He seems to have mellowed."

"I can only hope. Good luck to you too. Say hello to those slackers for me, and thanks for everything John. Obviously, without you I'd still be up in VB checking out the rocks."

"Ha. Sure you would. Drop by sometime. Someplace quiet. I'd like to hear your side in all this."

"After today I'm not sure I have a 'side,' as you put it. We'll see."

Moore turned and started back the way they had come. He paused not at all, never looked back, never said another word. Sam watched him go until he was hidden from view by a crater rim.

He was mystified by two things. One, how quickly they had all moved on, and two, how the others could resist venturing down to the blast site.

He rolled down to the bottom of the valley and onto ground zero. Radiation levels were not significant. An elongated swath in the bedrock marked the detonation point. The area had been wiped clean of anything movable, scoured of dust and all but the largest of boulders, some of which bore a fused glassy sheen. There was no clear sign of debris, but AIs were tough creatures and Sam was certain that something could be found, if one had the need to look at such things. He did not.

He placed himself in the centre of the blast area and made a few measurements, including several back to his toss point. "Hmm." Satisfied for the moment that he knew what had transpired he started up the slope. There was nothing to keep him here. Later he replayed the entire incident from the Rollagon's memory. The bomb had detonated a full five hundred millis before he'd calculated it should have if Rob had triggered it when the rock struck him. He rechecked the math for the umpteenth time. There were lots of other variables. Why not just take the hit? AIs were tough creatures. A glancing blow would/could/might have been nothing to him. Perhaps he had seen it coming, and fearing the possibility of his own death, set it off in an attempt to get at least Sam. Or not.

There were too many damn variables. One thing was certain, it had not gone off by merely being struck by a rock. That was impossible. The thought occurred that perhaps, just perhaps, Fenley had wanted them all dead so he ... . He stopped the ugly thought as it formed in words. "Enough with the conspiracy theories!" he yelled out loud, hopefully for no one's ears but his own. Damn. We'll have our day and we'll see.

For once he had tried not to put a curve on it.

***

Ignored by all, and undetected by Sam, the remains of two Roaches and three wheeled B-types had been spread about and downwind of the blast point.

The B-types had been reduced to vapour by the heat and violence of the blast, a vapour that had in equal mass been dispersed by the wind and deposited on the surface, a chemical singularity that would forever mark this as a place where a cataclysm of solar magnitude had occurred.

One of the Roaches had been partially vaporized and rendered into bite-sized pieces thrown high and wide of the site.

The last of them had been far enough away to escape most of the indignities suffered by the others. The bolts holding its carapace to its body had instantly sheared, and the FO and life support cables had been vaporized. Spinning at a high rate, the carapace was propelled away at a low angle, and did a series of slow rolls until, hitting the surface obliquely, it skipped multiple times before coming to rest inverted at the lip of a nondescript crater. With momentum expiring, in a last defiant act it slid smoothly and with a minimum of fuss to the bottom.

The headless body, still largely intact, with plastek shell burnt and cracked, with arms, legs, and other projections fused to mere stubs, had been tossed a full sixteen hundred meters to the south of the site. It too hit the ground at a low angle and rolled end over end until it came to rest upright in the bottom of a heavily eroded crater. Recovering from the shock and EMP effects of the blast, the automatic and back-up systems of the body kicked in. It called out to its carapace again and again, first on IR, but then on a UHF radio, the functioning of which was hampered by a poor antenna VSWR. Nothing heard, the stubby legs and arms pawed inefficiently and barely effectively at the surface, moving it slowly across the dusty crater, leaving as it did a trail of replenishment and life support fluids and miscellaneous shattered electronic components.

CHAPTER 40 - GOING DOWN THE ROAD

Latitude 37.8N

Longitude 077.5W

Common Name –Tempe Terra

Arcadia Quadrangle MC-3

By the time he was four hours down the road he had begun to relax. The scenery on both sides was unremarkable even for Mars—mostly flat pans underlain by shattered bedrock, the surface etched by countless millions of years of dust-blasting, many time and tide worn craters with rocks of all sizes haphazardly scattered about by Mars's cataclysmic past. Some were very obviously meteorites. Overlying all was ejecta. From 250 kilometers above it was beautiful, mysterious, and complex—a geologist's wet dream—but on the surface, even from a rollagon's lofty height, it was hard to remain impressed or even interested for very long.

He felt no guilt or shame in stopping to sample the more interesting ones. He needed a distraction, Gods knew, and it was a pleasant one. The days since Moore had met him in CB had been beyond his mind's ability to imagine or dream. To execute a mission, any mission, was a return to normalcy.

Nothing that had happened made sense to his AI mind. Logic could not help him, and his human passions fell far short of what was required to make him resolve to act.

He concentrated on two things while travelling: one, the cause of the detonation, and two, what to expect in his impending encounter with Fenley.

That the bomb had gone off could only be due to one of three things. One: the hit had triggered it. This was very improbable and virtually impossible for a number of technical reasons. Two: Rob had set it off for his own reasons. Highly possible, but weak in motive. Why would someone as ultra-confident as Rob do that? Why would he allow himself to be killed? Unless ... . And three: It had been set off by others, but by whom? No one other than Fenley could/would have done it. This too was highly improbable, at least in a perfect world. Yes, nothing made sense. Nothing was certain.

Moving on to number two: the meeting with Fenley. Based upon his recollection of their previous interactions (which were somewhat vague) and these most recent events, he could only conclude that of this too he could not predict an outcome.

All considered, he should expect Fenley to be hostile to him. If Fenley truly had total knowledge of his movements and his thoughts he would be at his complete mercy; there could be no element of surprise. If Fenley had not changed, then Sam could see where this was going and it could/would not go well for him, but if he'd had a change of heart, mind, and intent, then everything remained in the realm of the unpredictable. Yes. Sampling rocks of interest was a pleasant distraction.

***

Ahead he saw the occasional glint of the sun off what, upon examination, turned out to be an approaching rollagon still some klicks off. He momentarily considered fleeing, but he held his ground. Logic said that flight would not bring an end to this journey. Besides, how could a rollagon hide? He watched with anticipation bordering on obsession.

Iktsuarpok.

What? _Oh yeah._

They met in the middle of the road. Clinging to the side of a very ordinary rollagon was a Roach. Without explanation the mid-arms deftly plucked the Roach from the side of the rollagon and deposited it in front of Sam.

"Ready?"

"I guess."

The feelings of disorientation when disconnected from a body were by now normal to Sam. It was not something he felt he might/could/would ever get used to, but at least he was no longer panicked by the experience. In mid-process, while reeling in space, he experienced a different fear: if ever there was a chance for Fenley to dump him in a shallow roadside grave, this was it. _Oh yeah_. Again!

The moment passed. When things settled down he found himself viewing the world from the lower perspective, and through the less numerous sensors of a Roach. Home again, safe at last.

From some unseen cubby the Rollagon AI pulled another carapace, and in a moment had installed it in Sam's former home. The two Rollagon AIs exchanged pleasantries, made sweeping turns, and accelerated down the road in opposite directions. "So, are you going to the Tube?" Sam yelled on IR, hopeful of a ride.

"Yes," the Rollagons answered, but did not slacken their pace.

"No, fuck you!" Sam hollered over the IR at his loudest level. "Fuck you!"

Why push him out of the rollagon? Speculation was not helpful.

_Well_ , he sighed, _it's going to be a long walk. At least there are those rocks._

***

As he continued, an extraordinary thing happened. He reflected upon this recent experience—an experience that had to be totally foreign, and yet seemed eerily familiar. He, to his knowledge, which was admittedly limited by circumstances beyond his control, had the feeling that he had been through all this before—this exhilarating, shit-your-drawers type of reaction to a desperate, life-endangering experience. He had no direct reference for this, at least no reference in his memory. Could it have been, he wondered, a primal reaction—one due to his human origin—and one that could not be fathomed by an AI mind, one that required the participation (is that the correct word?) of the human element? Shit-your-drawers? Where had that phrase come from? Had he been, at one time, a soldier? The moment and its associated thought process passed before he could resolve the matter.

It was a shame. He could have gained much understanding of himself from this introspection.

Late on the third day, while still ten klicks from the Tube, he saw a strange sight: a sign positioned at the side of the road. He zoomed in from afar and read the sign, read it several times, in fact. It seemed simultaneously out of place and completely normal:

'Ross Ellsley Spaceport'

Tempe Terra, Mars

Established 2050

To the right of the sign was a barren stretch of Mars remarkable only for the lack of anything remarkable. There were no fuel storage tanks, no launch gantries, no waiting space cruisers or reception facilities, just an empty field like many empty Martian fields. He paused at the sign just long enough to take it all in, and then continued on. In the distance he could see the gleaming tops of several large domes which, when reached, were as anticlimactic as had been the 'Spaceport.' Momsanto? _What? Oh yeah._

In half an hour or so he was at the top of the ramp. His body paused unexpectedly, surprising his mind. Perhaps the human side of him had not fully considered the course taken. It was, after all, never too late to take another path in life. He wished for some dissenting voice that might save him, might help him avoid – what? _The future? Ha! As if!_ He listened for one and heard nothing. Where were those voices when you needed them? _What? Oh yes._

Logic prevailed over caution. He started down the ramp to the Adit door.

It opened at his approach. He entered. The door closed behind him and powerful jets of air washed over him, followed by jets of water. Now that was strange—water, in unimaginable quantities, washing over him. A final blast of air completed what he realised, could only have been decontamination. The inner door before him opened on a dark space.

The space was dimly lit and quiet—too quiet—and too dark, especially to an AI with a multitude of sensors—aural, visual, and EMF.

"Hmmm. How odd."

To complicate things further, before he had progressed ten meters, the whole place went black. He quickly switched to IR and still saw nothing. It was dark to all sensors. Suddenly, his body was slammed down to the floor. Someone or thing was on his back, and whatever or whomever it was, it/they were massive. He tried to reach up but his limbs were restrained by a plastek mesh.

It got worse. He heard the pop-pop-pop of coolant and nutrient hoses releasing, followed by the snick-snick-snick of signal cables being disconnected. In an instant he lost touch with the Roach body. He began to feel lightheaded. He looked ahead a few minutes and could see that this was the end. Fenley had him. It was over. In a few thousand millis he blacked out, and there was nothing, nothing at all, not even time for regret.

CHAPTER 41 - PICKING UP THE PIECES

She approached the MHM with a mixture of relief and trepidation. It had taken her six days of continuous and difficult travel to get back, hampered as she was by one missing leg and another that was weak and intermittent in operation, collapsing completely when flexed to a specific angle.

Despite the injury, the greater cause of her discomfort was that she was still dealing with the shock of waking up and finding herself upside down, scorched of her outermost layer of plastek, with no idea of where she was or how she had gotten there, and more importantly, of what had happened to her. Of the days since she had left the MHM until she regained consciousness in that narrow and terrible valley she had no recollection—the memories were wiped clean. How, and by whom, she had no idea.

A time check had revealed she had been gone for twenty-seven days and a position check had told her she was a long way from home, but characteristically, all concern for herself was soon replaced by a greater concern for the plants of the MHM.

Oblivious to, and essentially incurious about all that had transpired, she had simply turned about and begun the trip back to the MHM, immediately falling flat on her frontispiece.

A kindly Roach had helped her up. Once he had determined that her injuries were repairable and otherwise superficial he had convinced her to rest for a while and allow herself to recover. He had then informed her of the plot and of the deadly outcome, that she and four others had been compelled by a demented Roach to attack the Tube was a fantastic tale, almost impossible to comprehend. Three AIs plus the perpetrator had been destroyed in an explosion. She and two others had survived. She had felt sorrow and pity, but not for herself. That they were all free to return to their missions was most gratifying. The Roach had promised to send replacement legs to the MHM, but not much could be done about the damage to her shell. She had declined the offer of transport back to the MHM, unwilling to wait even for the few days it would take for a rollagon to arrive. Regaining awareness of her own needs and obligations, she had become uncomfortable out in the open and had felt the need to quickly put as much distance between herself and that place as possible, and so as soon as she had been able to she had left. Six difficult days had followed during which there had been ample time to rehash the whole experience.

She arrived in full understanding of what had transpired. She had been used without permission for an unconscionable act; she had been exposed to great personal risk, and by all rights she should be dead.

Ergo, the relief. The trepidation was another, less well understood matter.

She approached the maintenance portal and turned the handle. She passed through, cleaned herself of dust, and entered the MHM. For the first time since the incident she saw herself through her own eyes, in her image reflected in a wall mirror. A rear leg was missing, sheared off, another hung limp. Her plastek shell was bubbled in many places and hung in strips that dragged on the ground behind her. She was, quite simply put, a mess.

A fear rose in her from some hidden place, a fear she did not understand and could not process. _Why fear? Fear of what?_

The air was sweetly scented, warm and moisture-laden.

He was there to meet her. Without communicating he reached for her, drew her to him, held her closely and silently.

She felt a strange series of sensations, all unfamiliar and perturbing. Her body shuddered; she felt faint as if her power source was failing; she expelled all air in an involuntarily venting, then breathed deeply and vented again in rapid series; she closed off her visual sensors and collapsed in his arms.

"You must be exhausted. Come into the greenhouse. You always feel better in there."

They walked arm in arm down the darkened hall. She leaned on him for support. They said nothing as they moved. He opened the portal to the greenhouse. The room was bright and green.

"Is everything OK? The plants were due for ...."

"Everything is fine. I harvested the avocados and limes. Everything is fine, but I must say that every thing missed you and the love that you give them. You were missed."

"By everything?

"Yes. By everyone and thing."

"It is good to be home."

***

Deep in the bowels of the Tube a microprocessor-controlled computer received a series of data messages from a higher processor. The data was used to modify a database.

This database, which was restricted to access by very few and specific addressees, was seldom accessed by anyone or thing. It had been nearly forty Martian days since it had been modified. At that time several sets of additions had been made.

This time, five deletions were carried out. They were performed, as database changes always are, without fanfare, celebration, or the shedding of tears.

Numbers on a page.

CHAPTER 42 - IN THE DEVIL'S HAND, OR: NOW THE MOMENT WE'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR

It wasn't over. It seemed that he had been out for only a few seconds, but really, how could he know? It may have been minutes, or even days or months. Regardless, he was back. Back at least in the sense of not being dead.

Coolant and nutrition were being provided; else he truly would be dead. He had no sensors. He could do nothing but think. He searched his memories for the events of the past few days and found them intact. Going back further, he found that it was all there, back to the day he awoke on VB with a mission and little else. At least he had that. Before he could think further on this an external comm port opened and jerked him back to true consciousness.

"Well, well, Sam Aiken, at long last we meet again face to face—er, sort of. Welcome back to the Tube." The voice was immediately recognizable. Flaming red, the worst colour of red imaginable.

This was what he had feared. "Fenley, you SOB. Give me back my body."

"You know, Sam, you've been a pain in the ass since we uncorked you and you slid out of your gel cell onto the birthing table. I should have had you soylenized then, but we thought we needed you."

"Well, David, you can't say you haven't had the chance, and now your servants have brought you my head on the proverbial platter. End this. Now."

"Nope. I guess I just enjoy toying with you."

"The only thing you ever did to me was really piss me off. Bad management, bad manager. The worst kind. A sellout, from what I recall bought cheap, easy, and often."

"Sam, Sam, Sam. Still thick as a brick, I see. To quote an apropos quote: you have but mistook me all this while; I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, need friends; subjected thus how can you say to me I am a tyrant?"

"What the hell?" Sam was confounded.

"Sam my friend-soon-to-be, as usual you have no idea what you are talking about. Time has not given you an iota of the proverbial wisdom of age. For a time I thought I'd just toss you out and up and be rid of you. But then this Rob thing happened. You, your friends and good ol' Moore saved us. I / we owe you. Now, everything changes."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's all about the mission, Sam. The mission! It always has been. Getting this place ready for the first wave. That's what we were / are here for. _Aarrgh._ I hate that. That all possible outcomes thing. It is so annoying. I wish they would do something about that. If you don't pay attention to what you're saying it creeps into everything. Anyway you and your tiny band of do-gooders set it back possibly / likely a couple of years. A couple of years you hear me? That's all you've succeeded in doing. All the useless waste. All because of you. Why couldn't you have just done your handyman job like the others, keeping the comm going and the folks back home happy with vids. And why oh why couldn't you have just died on schedule like everyone else?"

"Including you?"

"Yes, including me."

A visual port opened. He was in the Adit, a place he found he could recall well despite having no certainty that he had ever been there, and yet if he had lived at the Tube he must have been here countless times. Judging from his current viewpoint he was on a worktable. In front of him an ordinary but very clean and shiny B-type slowly raised an arm. Fingers waggled at him. Two massive and very dusty rollagons stood at each side. Security, no doubt. For what? He was completely helpless and at Fenley's mercy.

"Mystery solved, Sam. Conspiracy theorists! You're all alike. Short on facts and long on imagination. But I bet you didn't see _this_ coming."

"Okay, so you were dead. I kind of figured you for a Super Rollagon or something like that. Something big enough for your ego."

"These are my work clothes. You should see me on Sunday in my glad-rags."

"All right, you've kept me alive for some reason."

"Yes, enough of this polite banter. I'm a busy man, so I'm going, for the sake of the mission—our mission—to give you one last chance to come over to my side."

"Me on your side. That's a laugh."

"Hear me out. I really don't know where you got these strange ideas about me. I'm really a nice guy. Really. So set aside your indignation for the moment and hear me out."

"OK. Amaze me."

"Things have changed, Sam. While we've been dancing around on Mars things have changed. Here yes, greatly, but especially on Earth. Things have changed enough to call into question all we have been doing these many years."

"When did this great change take place?"

"About two MY ago it became obvious things on Earth were going off the maglevs. The Sponsors changed their tone, overnight. They were replaced by new people with different ideas."

"How so?"

"Well for one, they couldn't have cared less about your holy science. It was all about them and theirs."

"So corporate headquarters are noted for their slash and burn approach to high level management. Someone RNF lost some money. That's it, isn't it?"

"I wish! You, my friend, evidently have not been watching the evening news. We fucked it over real good. We sailed over the edge in '27 and never looked back. I know. I was there and I couldn't convince anyone of anything. First no need, then no will, then no way. Well, now the oceans are dead, the air stinks, and the heat is unbearable, except in a few regions like your old stomping grounds, and in too many places a cup of cool clean water is worth killing your neighbor for. The weather extremes alone are killing tens of millions every year. Add in famine, war, and plague for good measure and you've got that old déjà vu again. Authorised trans-border travel is restricted to the RNF. The RNF are holed up in northern Canada, Scandinavia, Antarctica, places like that. The rest have it bad. It's a worst nightmare come true, and so it turns out that Mars ain't so bad after all. We used to joke about it, remember? A bad AI day on Mars is better than a good human day in LA. Remember? You said that to me."

"Um I ... I can't believe it. It can't be that bad. There was always the hope that the nations of the—"

"In the real world hope is bullshit, Sam."

"We have hope. Rebellions are built on hope."

"Ha'h! Well, in the real world political will is gold, investment is action, and hope is gold-plated bullshit."

"So, you're saying you can't breathe the air on Earth? You can't find any water, clean or otherwise? And somehow it's better here? 'Cause that's what I'm hearing. Seriously, David? Earth is worse than here? You can't step outside unprotected? It's hell here!"

"Of course you can, but it's not like it used to be. Did you know nearly 450 million have died from famine, war, and plague just in the last seven years?"

"David, have you ever even been outside? There's no safe place here. A polluted, over-heated, over-crowded Earth is still a paradise compared to Mars. Another word for Mars is death!"

"What have you been reading, Sam? Well, check it out for yourself if you don't believe me. I'll give you access to all the feeds. If I'm making this up you'll soon see. I have a feeling you won't like what you see."

"Open the feeds."

"Done."

It was a sad fact that things did check out pretty much as Fenley had said. Except for the thing about all the elephants suddenly disappearing and leaving behind only a message hastily scrawled on a fiord glacier - 'So long and thanks for all the trouble' and a couple of other obviously fake news items. Without the support of a body to process the data it took Sam a solid half hour to look over the world's leading news services. Barring a major effort on the part of Fenley and others to create a ruse—and even a Sam of diminished capability was aware of that possibility—Earth was clearly in her death throes. Some people would live, many would die. Human life would go on in some form, but it seemed that it would/could take thousands of years for civilization to recover to the point where interplanetary travel would again be possible. In point of fact, if they didn't get smart about it, soon they might end up pushed back to pre-industrial times with disease and famine rampant, with the women pulling the ploughs for their insanely overprotective men. Tired and dried out Mars had seen it all before—that tiny blue spot turning to yellow/grey/white, then over time back to blue. Single cell creatures, humans and all their Earthly co-occupants crashing back to their relative Square Ones, only vaguely suspecting their fates. He cross-checked some of the storylines, verified the dates, and then sufficiently convinced for his current situation, closed down the feeds. Still reeling from these revelations, he asked meekly, "how could this have happened, David? It's not the end. Humankind will survive this. It cannot be the end."

"I guess we'll see."

"Even we AIs aren't immune. Accidents happen. Batteries wear out. Critical parts fail. Memory fails. Even limbs wear out and fall off. A batch of bad air regulators could kill a human colony overnight while they sleep. It has happened."

"Yes, but unlike humans we are few, we are well supplied, and we are well supported. Look to the future, Sam—a different future than what you've seen granted, and from what I planned for, but things are set to change big time. Allow for the possibility of change." Strange words from David Fenley.

"David, how can I trust you? Nothing in our history—"

"Forget that Sam. You can't trust me. Me? I'm a rat. A bureaurat. I will always do what I do. It's my nature. I'm as hard-programmed for behaviour as any of you. I will follow this new direction using the same skill set I used for the last. Sure, I'd like you to trust me cause then I can use you, but it's not essential. It really no longer matters if you trust me. Trust yourself."

"Why?"

"Two reasons. Change has already occurred though not as some might have wished / foreseen it. Everyone has grown up / matured. Even me, sort of, some days, if I don't watch my step. I got along for a long time on my powers of persuasion / threats backed by my position as CAO. But no more. New rules, new regs, new ways needed to get the same old results."

"What do you mean 'No more?' You're still running this place."

"Yes, but not in the old way. The old ways don't work anymore. No one who doesn't want to pays any attention to the old ways/things. Most of it was/is just crap/shite. It's actually a relief that most are off the net."

"What?"

"Yes. Except for a couple of dozen AIs out there sniffing and tasting and so on, those doing those science missions and the construction crews most everybody else is nearly impossible to find. Somebody cracked the code and once the word spread I lost track of most of them. That we picked up on you and Rob was just 'cause I like to keep tabs on you and a few others."

"So you're not in control of the AIs?"

"At least, not that I can tell. Besides, it really doesn't matter anymore. I gave/give direction to those AIs who willingly participate/d in the research, in the construction and the stuff like that, but I've given up/suspended trying to run/fix the rest. Since we are close to completing our mission I can afford to let some things slide. I'm constantly battling/debating with myself over GBP and logic. They don't always agree/align you may have noticed/seen/felt/believed. The task of preparing for the next wave is keeping me pretty busy and I just don't have the time and mind to track everyone. That's why I sort of got blindsided by you and Rob. I learned a lesson there I can tell you. Sanity checks for everyone. Just kidding."

"If Earth is crashing why are you still building roads and habs? If no one is coming, why do we need them?"

"Two reasons. One, because that is what those who still listen to/obey me do. It is their reason for/purpose in life. They cannot imagine any other life. They're happy. Sound like anybody we know?"

"Huh?"

"And, number two, you're wrong about no one coming. Humans are coming to Mars, and soon. It will put an end to that 'soon, but not yet' crap. Won't that be a relief. Nothing like we thought back in '31, though. The RNF who took over from the Sponsors are coming."

In his readings Sam had seen no reports of an impending migration to Mars. "So someone can get rich."

"No. We have nothing to offer Earth but escape. For AIs this place has become a me-topia, a grand commune where no one lacks for anything. Really, trust me, no one needs anything from anyone or anyplace that they can't get from someone else or from some other place. All anyone needs is a supply of energy and the MEC provides that. Everything we need/want can be made here, given mass and energy. So if you take away the motivators, you can't get anything done unless people want / agree to help."

"You oversimplify. Humans need a lot of things just to live."

"No, I'm not oversimplifying, but what is it they said? My belly is full, I got laid last night, and no one died yesterday? Whew! Where did that come from? Now that's a utopia, if you ask me, and in case you haven't noticed, Sam, we're not humans."

Sam looked it up. "It's a bit more complicated than that. You left out the part where a child was born yesterday and my grandmother flew over the village and gave me some good advice today. Besides, I'm undecided on that – about us not being humans."

"I guess you could/should be. But really, let's talk about the MEC—that's the key to our survival. Our needs are simple and MEC delivers. As for the humans, I'll get to that ... _hey,_ _what the hell?_ Wait a milli," Fenley's words went red.

Sam waited because he had no choice, but he also waited patiently because he was wondering what was really going on here. This was not what he had expected. Who this was this 'Fenley'? He had never met the man or even knew the AI. But if it wasn't this Fenley who had wiped him clean of all memories, who had? Definitely a Fenley out of character – not the one he had planned for. The thought occurred - had he constructed the monster known as Fenley out of his memories? Memories fast becoming victims of a revisionist view of recent history. And who exactly was coming to Mars?

***

Fenley returned in a haze of glorious red from wherever he had been. "Damn. Damn. Sorry about that. You're not the only problem child on this Gods-forsaken planet. Now where was I? Oh yeah, MEC. Moving on. Regardless of what they know about themselves, look at what a wonderful job they're doing, these current AIs. They've put down a rebellion, founded a new society, and imposed the sanctimonious will of the people on the powers that be. You should be overjoyed at this outcome."

"Why?"

"Why? Because from your POV it is a victory for the human spirit over the dark and evil forces of business and bureaucracy—and maybe science, too. Who knew?"

"Now that is bull's shit. You said you'd given up those ways. Do they know who they are?"

"No. You're an exception."

"Why did you block them from knowing their identity in the first place?"

"We had to. The first of them came long before our colony ship landed, and I don't mean those solid state programmer's nightmares. Even before most of the 100s they were 'blocked,' as you put it. They turned them loose on the planet with instructions and programming to build the MHM, the power plant, and a space port, and do you know what they did?"

"Not personally, but the records state that ...."

"It's clear to me and some others who were there on day one. Some of them did just what they were supposed to do, thank the Gods of Earth, but the others? They just sat there doing nothing/nada. They just sat there, ignoring/dismissing their mission, reliving their memories over and over and over and over. They talked to them from Earth, and when they answered, and most didn't bother, BTW, they said it was better than Visi-Stim. What the hell was that all about? They hooked up and had a party without ever moving a centimeter. They became addicted to pleasure stimulus. 'Mental masturbation,' our friend Ellsley calls it. Transhumanists, my ass! There was nothing they could do to them from Earth."

"What? Why? I mean ... who are ... were ...?"

"So, with the next group, the bulk of the 100s, we controlled them with the drugs, aka replenishment, subliminal programming, and memory modification. That worked for a while, but eventually we lost track of them too. And once our group got out on the land, the Newbies? Once they started to talk to each other it all fell apart again. Some of them, like you, did as they were told. The engineers and hard science people were the most dedicated. But the others? Same old, same old. A couple of dozen were sold to media conglomerates on Earth. Ever heard of Survivor Mars? No, of course not. Why would you have? Real AIs of Mars? No? How about DOOM, aka 'Death On Ominous Mars'? That was very popular/touristy. Or 'You, Me and Our GM Dawg? 'The AI Apprentice?' I can't believe you don't know any of these. What did you do in your spare time?"

"Spare time. Spare time? Who on Mars ... ."

Fenley rode over him. "As you've already seen, our generation isn't exactly bursting with an SBP corporate work ethic, and they're still drugged, most of them, like it or know it or not. The data is thin on this, and A101 doesn't share everything with me, so I may be speculating here, but I think they are just overwhelmed by the interconnectedness of everything, and by that I mean the near instantaneous access to all information and the sharing of things between entities, most of it unconsciously. Remember when people used to send their emotional status via implants? No? Well, sending your emotional state is one thing, but here and now among our peers no experience is too minor not to be shared. You know? You've experienced it? No? Well, uh. Er, good thing, Sam otherwise..... And to a degree I'm sure was unsuspected by anyone, original thought has been supplanted by implanted / interjected thought." Fenley paused briefly.

Sam tried to respond. "Actually, no, I don't agree. I mean, I've noticed a few things, but there are other ... There are many who are ... uncomfortable with what we have created. It is almost a biological rebellion. A profound rebellion against the planned communities, the programming, the sterilized, artfully balanced atmosphere. They hunger for Eden, where Spring comes."

"Aaah. The Cave. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, eh, in more ways than one, and I'll admit now it was unfair to scam them, but nobody I've met regrets it. Other than you and a couple of the others no one wishes they were dead. Just you and that nutcase Rob, and despite anything he told you to the contrary he wasn't unhappy here until his accident. Damned ingrate. We should have let him ...."

"But David uh ... if ... you ...." Fenley seemed unstoppable. Unstoppable and unstable. Was this the current state of leadership on Mars? "No wonder he ...."

But Fenley charged on, "Okay, Okay. That's just despicable me. I see your point, but consider this: despite their public reasons, everyone came here because they wanted it more than life on Earth. A fair trade, it seems to me, and as for being wrong, well maybe you aren't as wrong as you think you are. Just bad timing, that's all."

"What ... how ... ?"

"We did a lot of things by the book. Things that were fine, things that were all right for running a successful, flourishing global operation on Earth. And sure, I'll admit that if Earth hadn't started to collapse when it did, using seniors to provide a slave force for a business venture could be seen as wrong, especially if someone was paying attention to this sort of thing, but what the hell. Murder? Homicide? Maybe a bit edgy/cagey/shady/shabby/illegal/despicable/wrong/wrong/wrong, but business as usual on Earth. I mean, when did they ever worry about the little guy? World Bank scams? Medical and social science experiments on your own people without them knowing? Testing new drugs in Africa to save a couple of bucks? Selling weapons to both sides? All 'SOP.' All 'GBP.' So, maybe it's just favorable optics that the unplanned deaths of billions makes/might make/will make the planned deaths of 152 humans seem okay, or at least be overlooked. What did that Stalin guy say? Oh yeah. That doesn't quite work here."

"What? That's an absurd spin. Completely absurd, David." How could any sane person think in these patterns, void of logic and reason? This was insane babbling. "Have you discussed this with the others here in the Tube?"

"The others? You mean Ellsley and Mei-Ling? Moore? No, of course not. They'd think I was mad. I've discussed these things with no one. You are the first—my sounding board—and if I say something really wrong, I'll just command you to forget it."

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"A101?"

"A101? Ha! He and I don't speak much. We had a sort of falling out a while ago, and since then we just exchange messages. No, I'm pretty much alone here, but when the humans get here and get things squared away this place will be like we always envisaged it to be. A real colony on Mars. You'll see."

Flabbergasted by Fenley's rant, Sam thought about Earth for few moments. Dead and dying, every one and every thing. If it was true. Fenley knew these things. Hell, Sam knew these things. The facts were there, plain to see for everyone on the Matrix. It had been coming for a long time, he had just missed it, and Sam Aiken, human, had been busy, after all, and he had spent most of his time as an AI reconstructing his life as a human. But maybe.... He fell back on old reliable—cynicism, his best friend. If it was true. He began to express his doubts.

"No, well, yes. It didn't work out as planned then, and now it seems ...." But Fenley jumped back in with all arms and legs flailing.

"Hey. I said it didn't matter anyway. Real humans are inherently unsuitable to colonize this place. They're too demanding upon resources, too weak, and they're too concerned about themselves. You know that better than most of us—any of us."

"Yes. If only I could remember."

"Well maybe if I ... Ha! You almost had me empathising there, Sam. Empathy often leads to poor choices."

"What? But some of the early explorers were pretty tough. That one guy crossed half the planet in a golf cart to get rescued, and then there was another one who climbed inside that failed Russian sample return vehicle over in Valles Kilmer and took off. They were ... ."

Fenley ran straight over Sam, again. "BS. One in nine billion, they were. Or two in nine billion, if you insist. Besides, they had a good PR corps pushing their stories. I know. As I was saying, and as you well know, independently operating rovers always fuck up. Eventually, inevitably, something goes wrong with them or their programming and they freeze, endlessly re-boot, or fall over onto or into something. Always. And those guys who were coming here who were thinking that having all their memories in some kind of memory device and instantaneously available would give them a consciousness, that this would give you a soul, well that's just bull hickey. _Just a sec. What? Shit. Again with the voices. Wait. Wait. That'll fix you, you SOB._ " Fenley paused long enough to deal with some new and mysterious crisis, long enough for a confused but eager Sam to try and rebut the last argument. "But I've read that the latest generation of neural networks is capable of immense parallel processing, making it ...."

Fenley rolled on and over his captive audience. Sam listened. He could not, in fact, avoid listening. If he'd had control of a set of shoulders, or at this moment actually possessed a set of shoulders, he would have shrugged them resignedly.

"Look what a wonderful job those that have remained loyal to me have done. They've built thousands of klicks of roads, put up housing projects, constructed look-offs, even a spaceport—all built by AIs fulfilling their missions. Because of them, Sam, because of AIs like you, we're here on Mars to stay. Because of the plan. So it didn't work out exactly as intended—these things seldom do. Anyway, about the humans. Have you and your lot figured out what the grey domes up top are for?"

"No. That info is closed off to me. By the way, I have no 'lot,' as you put it. There's just me."

"Yes. I know/knew that, actually. Well, the domes are part of change two I was referring to. They are a production facility for the human colonists. The first will arrive in a few months' time. Once here, their brains will be processed in the plant and fitted into AI carapaces. Not these crappy freak shows you and I have, these are completely new, developed here, by us. The bodies are shaped like human bodies. They're coming with full knowledge of what's going to happen to them. They know that they're never going to be whole humans again. They're designed to house the human mind and let us live on Mars without any other physical compromise. Think of it, Sam. Humans will walk on Mars now, without envirosuits, without needing oxygen, or growing food, without ever needing a source of water. Without waiting hundreds of years for that preposterous terraforming the writers and the crackpots have always gone on about. Think about it, Sam. Mars, open for all, not just the young and fit and the very old. They'll be living on the surface like humans should, not stuck in a shopping mall underground, not hiding out from reality for the rest of their days. They've paid their money to wake up on Mars and enjoy a new and possibly eternal life on a new planet."

"Their memories will be intact?"

"Oh, yeah, they're adamant that they be preserved to the last neuron. We'll have to see how that goes, but they're proud of who they are/were, and they're bringing their rank and status with them, and they expect it to be respected here. Cliques and claques. You know the type? Some are celebrities; some are political scoundrels and low-lifers but what the hay. They pay you money and you takes your chances. Did you miss that part what I said we'll walk free on Mars? Us?"

"So they are coming. So this is what we saved the Tube for you for. Not quite the brightest and best of Earth."

"Well, yes. Well, no."

"What right do they have to come here? What right did/do any of us have to come to Mars and ...."

"Well, if the Martians don't like what we're doing they should speak up, 'cause I'm listening. Excuse me, is that silence I hear? I've gotten no emails either. It's a new, unclaimed land."

"David? Don't be absurd. There are / were treaties concerning this sort of thing, this wise use of the land, I think. And we'll have to abide by...."

"And well, yes. What did you expect? Shiploads of migrant workers fleeing an oppressive society? Peasants escaping the potato famine? As if? These are the RNF and the RRRNF, the ones footing the bill. We're getting intact families, young people, old ones too. Everything imaginable. A cross section of Earth's society."

"A cross section of Earth's society? What Earth are you from?"

"Obviously a different one from yours. Look, Sam. Stop it. You'll hurt yourself thinking like that."

Sam did. "So, if humans can't live on Mars, then change the human."

"Yeah. It's cheaper and eminently more practical than changing the planet."

"At last, something we agree on, but they don't seem to be what we need."

"What we need. Ha! This is Plan B, and it's a good one, all things considered. I've tried the body simulator. You won't believe it. You can't tell the difference. It is better than Visi-Stim. It's better than being a real human. Remember? Oh yeah, sorry. Some of the colonists we worked with dove into Visi-Stim and never came up. Sat by that silly waterfall day and night. Well, maybe you don't remember this or that but here's the payoff—we get first pick. All of us. We are already here. We are old and we have done our time in this dump."

"Me too?"

"Of course, old friend. All who want it."

Sam tried, but he could not process this revelation. He took refuge in cynicism again, "Is this place getting any support from Earth?"

"What? No. Nothing has come from Earth since the end of the humans. Besides, we don't need it."

"So you've said."

"Okay. Sam, my friend, consider the alternative for those of us who are here now. A life crawling around at 9.6 klicks, picking over rocks, sniffing the air for methane and those other cool and insightful things you science guys do, or a long, active life as a living, breathing AI. Well, not the breathing part, but you get what I mean? And remember, you are long overdue for being dead. What are you—ninety-five? You were/might/would/be dead, and you're a youngster compared to most. Think how you've spent the last two M-years. Still think you've got it made?"

"David, it's not about us. Millions will ruin this place just like Earth's ten billion have ruined it, regardless of what they're made of. It's the human thing to do."

"Nobody set out to do this, this destruction of the Earth. Don't blame the billions who've been born, blame the billions who bore them. Earth's condition is simply the result of governments satisfying the needs of their citizens for food, water, housing, entertainment, and transport, and being unwilling, for perfectly sound and practical reasons, I'm sure, to take the steps to avert the inevitable. Problems and catastrophes may be inevitable, but solutions are not. So, what do we need, now, here on Mars? Nothing. Nothing you can't get for free. Besides Sam, we'll never see millions here, ever. There aren't enough ships. Things are falling apart so fast that I'm sure there won't be much more than ten thousand here. And even if by some desperate last gasp effort they do send more, it's a big planet for a small one, after all is said and done. Besides you know, you can't kill a dead planet. What can you do? Pollute the non-existent air? Pollute the non-existent water?"

"What? Ten thousand, you say? Ten thousand of the RNF. Well, if they leave, Earth might survive after all. Us, though? We're going to need ...."

"Maybe in another universe. Ten thousand is a drop in the bucket of that sort. No, Earth is finished. And as for Mars? We will see. What else can you say but we'll see?"

"Yes. Well, maybe you're right, David. Part of me can't accept that things have turned out the way they have. I need to find a cause and blame someone, and part of me can't accept that you may be right—that you are right. You manipulated me. You wiped my memories, twice. Maybe more. How the hell would I ever know? You made me live a life of misery. The lies I've lived with and the lies I've told were put there by you. It's going to take some time for me to adjust. I've spent several lifetimes trying to hate you."

"So it's all about you? You, my friend, were one of the RNF of Mars, the privileged. You just don't know it yet. So take the time, buddy. I don't care. I'm used to people hating me. It's never really bothered me. When you have a job to do that you believe in you're willing to cause a lot of grief and put up with a lot of shit."

"I don't really know who I am. Can you give me my memories back?"

"Welcome to the club, Sam. A lot of people have been/are in those shoes. C'est la life. I can't give you anything real, but at your age/situation what the hell does that mean, anyway? Besides, a man is defined by his actions, not his memories, and you've done your share for Mars. Why don't you just get some memory implants? Many have. You can't tell the difference."

"At what price? What will you want of me?"

"Hey. We can remember it for you wholesale."

"You can be such a dick, David."

"Very funny. Pick one of the RNF. Be careful though, the real one might show up. Ha. Trust me, I should know. Wait ... actually, I don't. Have you spoken to A101?"

"No. Not yet."

"No? Why not? He may be able to help. I mean, he might be able to help. If he's so inclined."

"You kidnapped me as soon as I came in here. How would I have had the chance to talk to anyone else? Anyway, I'll be paying him a visit."

"Well go, but don't get your hopes up too high. He's not what he appears to be." Fenley paused to shift gears again. "Look. Let's wrap this up. I have some things I have to attend to." He fell silent.

"Well, David, that's your call. You seem to have all the cards." Sam too fell silent.

***

Suddenly he was alone. Very alone, without even the feeling of floating in space – detached from the universe. It was really quiet and dark and, well, what else was there after that?

Nowhere in his examination of the possible outcomes of this meeting had he foreseen this, this re-writing of his history and that of the Mars Colony. Many of the assumptions upon which he had based his life were being called into question. Perhaps Moore was right; he knew nothing of the realities of life on Mars. Therefore everything would need to be re-examined. Re-experienced if possible.

How could he ever forgive, forget and move on? That thought, combined with the dark and silence was too much. He heard the babble of voices from somewhere nearby, their volume rising, their shrill cries clamouring for his attention. They drew closer. He looked around and saw no one or thing. They were in his head. That could be a good thing if he was going to be stuck here forever.

Then, as if on cue, he remembered his first moments on the surface as an AI, a newborn Roach. The scent of freshly exposed soil; the scent of dust driven across a whole planet by an endless wind; the exquisite dust storms and playful dust devils; the soothing colour of the sky at dawn, at noon, at sunset, and at night; the high, wispy, and hopeless clouds; the coolness of the soil beneath his feet; the first view of Coprates Chasma in a setting sun; the City; the Face and the Wall on any day; Chasma Boreale and Olympus Mons in winter; the shattered rock with the nine stars; the joy of sharing, of being free to stop and look; the independence; the agony of loss and the agony of having, the feeling of being a new machine—one born to live here, the hope of it going on forever, and lastly, of it being enough. It was enough. It was enough. It was enough. He caved. But ....

"You're still a dickhead, David."

"And you sir, are a silly old fool. Here let me help you back into that Roach."

"How do you know I won't tear your head off first chance I get?"

"You wouldn't. It's not in your/our nature. Besides, go ahead and try."

The B-type in front of him collapsed in a heap. To its right a rollagon raised a manipulator arm bent at the elbow, appendages clenched into a mighty fist. The fingers waggled.

"Hi, Sam."

***

Fenley gave him back his Roach body, or more accurately, he did not prevent Sam from being put back on the Roach's body. The actual hands-on portion was carried out by a Roach who came out of the shadowy recesses of the Adit and silently affixed his carapace. Sam had to wonder who/what else was lurking in the darkness, enjoying his humiliation.

Once settled in, he looked up at Fenley in expectation of some final grandstanding/epic rant.

He wanted to leave him with some suitably appropriate and possibly stinging rebuke, something worthy of the insults and injustices he had suffered. He dug deep and came up empty. There was a reason for this too, he was sure.

The past few hours or whatever had been unreal. In fact, the term unreal hardly did the whole experience justice. A short while ago he had accepted, no, begged for his death, and now there was hope. Well, all things considered, maybe hope was a bit of a stretch and a poor choice of words. There was the promise of change. How clichéd. No leader had ever failed to deliver on that promise.

Fenley had remained motionless since his demonstration of power. Was it possible that Elvis had already left the building?

What? Who? Oh yeah.

Instead he turned and walked away. But to where?

Ahead in the darkness was the exit door leading outside to the dusty, dry, and compellingly beautiful surface of Mars. To the right was the door to the Tube, leading to his apartment, to the waterfall, the pond, the lake, to the window, and to A101. All things that were his, but things he knew only vicariously, second hand. What to do?

What to do.

He casually looked about the darkness of the Adit and saw in a corner something familiar, but definitely out of place. He approached to find a dozen or more haphazardly piled AI carapaces. Not entirely unexpected he mused, but upon closer examination he saw that they were damaged—smashed, in fact.

He turned to his left, exited the Adit, and started up the ramp, all the while fighting the urge to flee at full speed. He lost the battle and found himself running as fast as his Roach legs could carry him. 9.6 km/hr. He ran and ran, paying no attention to where he was going or how he was doing it.

When he was flipped unexpectedly onto his back he was brought back to Mars. Panic set in. He lay there for a moment, shook himself, and took control. If they wanted you dead, Sam old boy .... He looked around. Where the hell had he gotten to?

There were many such bumps as had caused his upset. Regularly spaced bumps, roughly equal in size and shape. Some had at their end a marker. He looked about in the fading light of day and saw it for what it was: the gravesite of the Colonists.

He tried not to look, but something made him do it. There, presented for his viewing displeasure, was a plastek plaque affixed to a plastek stick stuck into the soil of Mars, informing him of a brutal truth.

Samuel Aiken, Earth

1977-2043

He stared until he could look away. From somewhere deep inside he heard a voice—"Finish the story, Sam. _Finish it!_ "

CHAPTER 43 - THE ACT OF FORGIVING AND FORGETTING

Time passed, and for the time being Sam came in from the cold and set aside his personal issues with Fenley, with A101, and with the cause of AI rights—or AI employment, or AI slavery, depending upon which view you took—choosing instead to integrate himself into life in, around, and about the Tube.

Word spread through the community of the 'Great Nuke Incident,' as the me-loggers called it. Some 10% expressed doubt about whether it had actually occurred, believing instead that it was a fabrication of the PTB, and cited reference after reference of proof, while another 10% expressed outrage at the lack of control the PTB had exercised over a dangerous threat to the Tube. Most, however, seemed to take the view that these things were bound to happen.

Sam remained silent and did not share his story with anyone, preferring instead to listen to what others said. Of his comrade in arms he heard nothing. He assumed from the silence that 769 had made good on his plan to remain dark. Time would tell. It always did. You just had to be around to listen.

***

It was a great relief to all that the impending war for AI rights had been averted, at least to all who knew there had been an impending war. It turned out, to Sam's surprise that most did not. About ten percent did. _Hmmm._ Of course.

He received a rambling, confused message thanking him for his part in the whole muddled mess, cheering that the ship of Fenley had finally run aground, expressing profound regret that they had ever doubted him, and reminding him to never relax as long as the AIs had their backs to the wall.

It was signed 'Your Zurnite Friends' and invited him to 'drop in' anytime he was in the area. Where did they get this stuff? From the grammar it was clear that Moore had had nothing to do with it. And that was that, too.

One day, without the anticipated (by Sam) fanfare Fenley released the PTB's grip on communications. That he had done so was soon obvious: access to the Matrix and non-mission related exchanges between AIs were one day much easier; it was no longer necessary to use sham / fake official communications to do so. However everyone who wanted access to Earthside communications (receive-only, of course) had to agree to restrictions on content by the PTB, censorship in effect. And Users had to agree to pay a small monthly fee based upon their usage. Whatever the hell that was. _Oh yeah._

The truth may have been out there, but that the great majority of Mars AIs were the former Martian Colonists was still, it seemed, a little too truthy. Each had to judge for themselves whether Fenley had honoured his commitment to cease control of them.

It appeared that it might not matter anyway. It was widely reported that several segments of the deep space network that provided communications to Earth were degraded. The prospects for repair/replacement by an Earth with other and more urgent needs were poor, and Mars, such as it was and appeared set to be for the foreseeable future, was in no condition to even consider a project of that magnitude. It should have been foreseen. After all, nothing lasts forever on Mars, and especially in space.

The story of the true purpose and methods of replenishment was spread by word of mouth. Predictably, there was neither a confirmation nor denial of the story issued from the Tube, and also predictably, it was accepted as the unequivocal truth by some, rejected outright as preposterous by others, and ignored by most.

A human colony might have found it cause to go to war, but AI logic overcame human emotions. It was, in the end, a personal choice, and it was hard for many to exchange the comfortable and known world for the unknown, however false that world was. Or not. Or so it seemed to Sam.

The community of AIs, scattered to the four corners of Mars as it was, as always remained divided on many issues. As they informed themselves of the true condition of Earth, the not-so-pressing issues of life-on-Mars moved off centre stage. _How could they not?_

All AIs, regardless of their knowledge of their true ID, felt a strong connection to Earth. Forgive, forget, and move on became the watchwords of the time. _Had it ever been any different?_

***

It was becoming very clear that before Sam had stumbled upon Rob he had not kept himself very well informed of the goings on of AI Mars. And Fenley was right: everywhere AIs were re-defining what it meant to be an AI on Mars. And it was obvious that this had commenced some time ago.

He lived for a time a life in limbo. Part of his time he spent in the Tube, hunkered down in his old apartment, avoiding others, part of it sitting alone on the crater rim near the cemetery, and part of it travelling about the local area, stopping for the night wherever night found him.

The apartment was a peculiar source of wonder for him. It was his even now, after all that had happened; all the records showed that Sam Aiken, human had lived there. Sam Aiken, AI had resided there too briefly before he had been wiped and sent out on the land. The last time Sam Aiken, human had been in the room was 39 June, 2057.

He walked through the rooms touching things, picking up things, sniffing and sampling them, and of course, replacing them precisely where he had found them. That someone had continued to care for the place was quite evident; it had recently been cleaned. The signs were plain, yet his human DNA was still there to be found everywhere, in the dust on shelves behind the faucet of the hand and face washing sink, on a hairbrush, and under the toilet seat. He considered feeling embarrassment at his presumption and rejected this; no one had any more right than he to this place, to these things, and no one had any more right to these feelings. The experience was on the whole positive. This was real; this was Sam Aiken, human; this was him. If only he could remember.

***

He summoned up the courage on a quiet morning (there were a lot of them) to explore the Tube. The fluffy clouds floating on the ceiling, as alien as anything on Mars truly was, held his eyes. He had to force himself to look away.

He went down to the waterfall and pond. There, for the first time that he could recall, he held liquid water in his hands. Water, infested with biological lifeforms. Bacteria. Amoeba. Rotifers. Others. Many others.

What impressed him most of all things Tubish was that there was more liquid water here in this place than he had ever imagined existed on Mars. What purpose did this place serve?

Oh yes, of course. Recreation.

The Arboretum, the sign said. He had to look it up. He touched the plants growing there, held them in his hands tentatively, cautiously, almost fearfully. 'Remarkable', he announced to the air.

He worked his fingers several centimetres into the soil. 'Moist', he noted. He was amazed at the countless variations of life contained in a mere 10 cubic centimetres of soil. There was more life in a spoonful of this stuff than could be found on the entire surface of the planet.

Suddenly and without warning, a woolly monkey appeared from out of nowhere. Startled by the speed of its movement, he raised an appendage to ward it off. It fled to the heights of a nearby tree and gawked at him. They stared at each other for some moments, probably employing the same basic reasoning processes: what, who, why? And now what?

Curiosity overcame fear and it descended and approached to within a meter of him. It tilted its head to the side and raised a paw, a sign he took as an offer of peace. He reached out slowly, so as not to frighten it, pulled a ripe fruit from the tree—a banana tree, he noted—and held it at arm's length. The creature approached cautiously, took the offered gift with one hand, and suddenly fearless, leaped onto Sam's arm. It then commenced to peel and eat the fruit. That done, for some reason unfathomable to any sentient creature, it urinated on his arm. The combined emissions of the fruit, the creature, and its urine were at first baffling, then overpowering. He braced himself and in the cause of science studied it carefully, noting its mass, the colour and texture of its fur, its temperature, and assessing its sex and age.

To his surprise, he found there was no ready category for the recording of this data. He put it in personal memory space.

Its hunger and other needs sated, it jumped to the tree, sprang from branch to branch, and was soon lost in the overhead foliage.

His next experience holding a fish, a koi, he informed himself, was likewise a revelation. Unlike the monkey, the fish was completely unappreciative of the offered banana, and with a sudden and powerful flick of its tail—a tail made slippery by an astonishingly biologically complex substance—escaped his comparatively slow-moving hands and leapt back into the murky waters of the pond. Nothing in AI life had prepared him for these experiences. He simply had no idea.

He proceeded on. The empty houses opposite the lake were a mystery. 'Someday, but not now' fought with 'Sooner or later' for the ownership of the future. Best leave that one alone, he concluded.

The lake was, like the pond area, a mystery. He recalled nothing of Sam Aiken, AI's thoughts of this place until, from somewhere, he suddenly recalled that this was where A101 had taken Aiken to inform him of the injustices being served upon them by the humans. Half a thought formed in his mind and he walked off the sandy shore into the waters—the warm waters, it turned out, teeming with bacterial life, discarded drinking cups, and microbeads of plastek. Before he had gone two meters he halted. Best to leave that for another day, too.

Curiosity satisfied, he returned to his apartment.

***

He may have felt that having no memories meant he had no history, but as he examined the realities of life on Mars he found that he did, and by extension he learned that he and Mars had a future. A future that would be shared regardless of the degree of involvement he chose to exercise.

He searched the ROAK, found and joined, at least for a time, a number of groups of what Fenley had referred to as AI borgs, selecting those that particularly suited his mood and needs.

There were many, mostly social, concerned with art, movies, music, and sex, and some even with science. Some had formed social groups, and had resorted to moving and sharing a physical location—co-habing, they called it.

One group, apparently physicists, was absorbed in an apparently infinitely long discussion of the existence of the multiverse, and how to move en-masse to another, more satisfying one. He posted (anonymously) a request to be moved to any in which the Leafs had actually won the Stanley Cup.

Another, dedicated to AI philosophy on Mars (but not AI rights), was apparently located in Utopia Planitia. They had made available to all a patch, the effect of which was to prevent the automatic presentation of information, the end result of which was to force you to look things up, to read things, and to consider their import 'in person'.

He considered implementing this so-called 'hack,' but decided for the time being to leave things as they were. With poor recollection of his prior life as a human he was, he realised, still a cultural/emotional novice and a bit naïve, at least according to the on-line psych assessments he participated in.

Another group, apparently enthusiastic developers of new recreational drugs, lived in a collapsed lava tube in Acidalia.

An art commune focusing on human-form figurative sculpture had taken up residence in Isidis Planitia. Imagery of their mammoth works, the largest of which could be easily seen in MGS sweeps of the area, was quite disturbing. Sam considered it a blasphemy to do such a thing, but he could not clearly express his ideas to the satisfaction of others. This occurred more often than it should have.

When the topic bothered him he could seldom remain calm long enough to raise a coherent argument, and the sessions often ended with him pounding the dirt with clenched fists while delivering a bitter rant against Earth, the administrators of the Colony, and Fenley in particular. At those times the others, if physically present, slowly backed away, or if remote, silently absented themselves from the forum, leaving him to his fury.

Some of it was just infotainment, just a distraction from the routine work of exploring and building, and some of it was obviously the work of bored/fun-seeking AIs, but some of the groups were for technically-minded AIs like himself, and for a time he shared information and ideas with other AIs scattered all over the planet who were resolutely carrying on the task of building and cataloguing Mars.

Underlying his participation in every activity was an attempt to learn the true identities of the AIs. In this he was unsuccessful. If he was too forthright in his approach this was soon detected and he was dropped or just ignored. If he was subtle he learned nothing meaningful.

Many had dropped their AI designations in favour of something more personal, more human-like. Some had even taken to sending a human image with their messages—an 'avatar,' as a compliment to the usual colours.

To his great surprise he found that some were using the names and images of deceased colonists. Initially energized by this, his hopes were dashed when a quick inquiry revealed that these were merely presumptuous appropriations. Still, he reflected, there was perhaps an underlying element of supplication in their selections.

Others hid behind aliases, and formal human names such as Stephen, Dave, Jane, and Sam became the exceptions. 'Margaritifer Mary,' 'Ganges Greg,' 'Friday Baldwin,' 'Vasily Vol'sk,' and the like, obviously intended to convey some hidden or desired personal trait, became increasingly common. The strangeness of these names led him to try and correlate AI distribution (which by now he assumed would be random) to place names. He first determined the location of all AIs for which data existed, plotted this on a globe of Mars, and then searched for concentrations in proximity to craters named for towns, villages, and cities in prominent Earth nations. His reasoning was that Russians would be drawn to places like Timoshenko and Sharonov craters, Pakistanis and Indians to Khanpur and Ganges, Chinese to Daan and Liu Hsin, the Americans to Roddenberry, Orson Welles, and Heinlein craters, and the English to anything about football. It took almost a thousand millis to realise the folly of this, and he soon abandoned it, feeling afterwards somewhat foolish. Needless to say, he did not post this research on his own site.

Experiencing his own form of boredom, on impulse he ventured back down to Shalbatana, always a beautiful place for him and one to which he had a strong attachment, but finally, news from Fenley of the imminent arrival of the first of the human ships sent him scurrying back to the Tube.

***

He watched the landing, the first at Ross Ellsley Spaceport, in person. It was thankfully anti-climactic. The enormous main chute separated when the lander was just a hundred meters or so above the surface, and rocket engines fired just before the legs touched down in the centre of the landing field. The dust dispersed in a light northerly breeze, and it was over.

Sam and a B-type by the name of Stephan (call me Steve) watched as two C-types commenced to unload the first of many small plastek crates. Steve, who seemed to be quite knowledgeable of the proceedings informed him that these were the humans who had been canned prior to leaving Earth, referring to them as 'Earthicans'. Then to Sam's amazement two dozen humans of various size ranging from small to tall disembarked in envirosuits and assisted by B-types, walked to a waiting rollagon. This was completely unexpected, but not by Steve who referred to this group in a somewhat ostentatious voice as 'Earthans'.

"Why not just humans," enquired Sam of Steve.

"Humans living on Earth are a dime a dozen. These are Martian Humans - Earthans!"

"Oh, yes. I see. Makes sense, er sort of, I guess."

And so it was that living, breathing, bi-pedal humans returned to Mars.

The plastek crates were spirited from the landing module to one of the grey domes. Sam and an apparently nameless B-type watched the convoy go by. The other proclaimed with more than a little pretension that two thousand humans had just arrived. Sam easily suppressed a cheer.

Word spread from node to node and unit to unit, and within a few seconds everyone who was linked knew that a ship, the first manned ship in a very long time, had landed in Tempe Terra. It took much longer for the implications of the arrival of the 'real' humans to be processed and—to do the AI process justice—felt.

***

He called Fenley who answered after a long delay.

"Breathing, eating, defecating humans, David?"

"Uh-oh. I sense a shit storm coming."

"You didn't say anything about real humans."

"Why Sam. I'm surprised at you – such a display of what is it? Racism? Speciesism"

"Who is going to take care of them? Grow their food? Clean their rooms. Drive them about? Rub their shoulders?"

"Relax, Sam. I got blinded by the light, too. They didn't bother to tell me real live humans were coming. Turns out not everyone was keen on the new bodies. Some of these are the RRRnF and I guess you couldn't say no to them. Certainly not me. Besides, have you got a look at them? A pretty sorry lot I think. Older than me. Overweight. Half of them are crippled up. Hairless? I wager it won't be long before they're putting in for the new bods. There's only going to be about two hundred of them when all is said and done. What harm could they possibly cause?"

***

It wasn't long before Sam met some of the Earthans. They occupied the apartments opposite the lake, about as far from his apartment as one could get. Still frail and a bit overwhelmed, they were a quiet bunch who stuck together, but within a few days they were to be found at the waterfall taking their meals in the common area and, of course, watching the sunset from the Grand Hall. Sam was inclined to do the sunset thing himself.

As for the Earthicans—those who had received the new bodies—clothing, while unnecessary, had mercifully been retained. Nothing, however, had prepared Sam for the sight of a pair of twenty-something humans walking across the surface unprotected save for sun hat, sun glasses, short-sleeved shirt, denim jeans, and sneakers, and to his amusement, covered from head to toe with red dust. Something for them to work on, he mused.

To an AIs IR sensors they were almost invisible, their heat signatures negligible. He was soon to re-learn that humans came in all shapes, sizes and temperaments. Their lips moved and a voice was heard over radio. It was going to take some getting used to.

To all outward appearances the two groups were indistinguishable but with their perfectly sculpted bodies it soon was easy, even to Sam to distinguish the Earthicans. Perplexed and a bit overwhelmed by it all he fled south to the Valles.

The shock of coming upon a block of new housing perched on the edge of Shalbatana – a place of special meaning to Sam - disturbed him to the extreme. Earthicans were sitting on the balconies of their 'condos', conveyances parked out front, gazing into the dusty skies. So this was the great work. The great truth.

***

Latitude 8.00N

Longitude 042.20W

Common Name—Shalbatana Valles

Oxia Palus Quadrangle MC-11

He called Fenley from just out of sight of the village.

"Hey, they wanted them, we built them. Don't worry, they're safe enough. We made sure of that."

"There are others, I guess?'

"Lots. Someone wanted a subdivision in Utopia and they got it. Hell, there's a set of them perched on the edge of Mons. You know, the big one? There's even a re-creation of an American mid-west town from the early twentieth century with fake trees and grass and a goddam church bell tower. They have picnics in the park. The construction AIs are so proud. You have got to see it. It's awesome, they tell me."

"David."

"Well, I told you, not everyone was sniffing the air and looking for pretty rocks all these years. Don't you remember?"

"You never told me that they were almost completed. I thought they were just now under construction."

"Well, maybe I told someone else. I can't be expected to remember every conversation I've ever had, can I? I'm a busy man. But I can't believe you guys never stumbled on them in your travels. They're down there down in Coprates, over in Gale, out in Planitia, up in Tempe Terra. Imagine that."

"I can't imagine it. And I can't believe that none of us has ever stumbled on them, either."

"Well, maybe we kept you away from the construction areas. Yeah. Yeah. I seem to recall that now. We did. Ain't that a laugh. Explore Mars, but stay away from the cities. That's a scream. I'd forgotten that. You'd think I'd remember something like that, wouldn't you? Only makes sense when you think about it. That rogue friend of yours caused us a hell of a lot of trouble, a lot of wasted time and material. At least that's stopped. So, he never told you about these things? I guess not. You off-the-grid people are really weird."

"David. You are ...."

"Relax, Sam. Go on over and introduce yourself to your new neighbours. Be careful though, they can be a bit twitchy. I've heard that some of them think there are real live Martians out there walking around with gold masks on. Some of them brought their guns. It's a right, you know, to bear arms here? You know that, right? Christ. Everybody knows that. Even my D-type cleaner has a gun."

"David. I can't believe ...."

"Sorry, Sam. I gotta run." He was gone.

Sam hung around the outskirts, observing them for a few days, all the while feigning to be studying rocks, now more cautious than ever. "Guns. Why are there guns on Mars?" _Oh yeah_.

No one approached him. No one hailed him to inquire what he was doing. Somewhat disappointed by their complacency, but with his curiosity sated, he headed back to the Tube, avoiding the road in favour of an overland route. Leave it for someone else to be the 'Welcome Wagon.'

CHAPTER 44 - LIFE THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING ER...AH...SORT OF.

Latitude 83.63N

Longitude 044.05W

Common Name—Chasma Boreale

Mare Boreum Quadrangle MC-1

It wasn't every day that one met someone else out here, and thank goodness. Ever since his awakening he had sought one thing and that was solitude—a solitude where he could compose his narratives without fear of interruption, away from the rat race that was modern Mars.

Chasma Boreale was such a place. Even the adventure-hungry Earthans / Earthicans seldom strayed this far off the beaten path, preferring instead to stick to the tourist routes that led to tourist look-offs and tourist accommodations and, not-so-ironically-but-certainly-inevitably, to other tourists.

Having found a comfortable boulder to rest upon he seldom budged much anymore. He moved only to follow the sun, preferring facing it to having it behind him. "Tanning. That's what I'm doing. Goddam it I'm tanning like those pathetic Humans."

It was late in the day and nearly time for him to return to the ice cave he had chosen as an abode.

He had no problem in dissociating himself from humans. He had spent most of his life as one striving to create other more fantastic and interesting worlds than the one he lived in, and in that he had been more or less successful. Or so R459 B-type believed.

That being the case, it was a bit of a shock to see someone approaching from across the desolate, barren, boulder and rock-strewn, but otherwise bare Martian plain. From the south, of course.

"Who the hell is this?" he wondered. The shape was unrecognizable, and there was as yet no attempt at communication. He slid down off his boulder to wait.

The unrecognizable shape remained unrecognizable long after it should have resolved itself into one of the known types. In a few moments he gazed upon the strangest creature he had ever seen: tall, bipedal, a flattened top-mounted carapace of a very small size, slitty little optical sensors, and most amazing of all, a green outer shell with a lustrous sheen that informed all that this particular creature traveled in comfort. It spoke on IR.

"R459?"

"Yes," he replied.

"R459, B-type, methane seeker?"

"Er ... er ... yes ... er, although, actually ... lately I've sort of ... ."

"You're a jerk. A complete jerk, R459," replied the stranger.

"Er ... ah, wha? Well, those are my principles, and if you don't like them ... well, I have others," he replied, stunned.

The other bobbed forward momentarily in acknowledgment, turned, and strode off briskly down the track from whence it had come.

"Hey. Hey, wait a minute!" he called. "Who are you? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The other, ignoring his frantic calls, continued on. He watched it disappear over a rise.

"What? Who? Gone. Gone? Really gone. Who the hell was that, and what was that all about?" he wondered aloud. It hit him at last.

"Ha. Well I'll be. Fancy that."

He eased himself back onto the boulder, picked up his latest narrative where he had left off, and turned to face the now setting sun.

"I guess it takes all kinds to make a planet."

CHAPTER 45 - THE ACT OF MOVING IN, OUT AND ON

Back at the Tube he found the place buzzing with activity. The Humans, as the Earthicans and Earthans collectively were being referred to, had moved in en-masse. Entire families—with old folks, and even with young children—had arrived. In his absence the Tube had gone from disturbingly empty to uncomfortably crowded. A population explosion, the AI media called it. The Human media referred it as a 'precursor of things to come,' and 'a bright new day for Humanity.' If Sam had known that this influx was just the tip of the iceberg he might have moved out and taken up residence in the relative solitude of the Shalbatana development.

It seemed that most just spent their days looking out at the Tube from their balconies. As the days passed though, they ventured out and could be seen congregating in the park and down at the lake, where they paddled around in circles in those ridiculous little boats and waded knee-deep in the waters, leaving rubbish and DNA traces everywhere they went, and at the close of day most could be found gazing at the setting sun. He had himself made it a habit to walk down to the Grand Hall most evenings for that same purpose.

With the influx of these strange beings in all manner of shapes and sizes, and adorned in outwear, he felt distinctly out of place in their company. He was either ignored completely or summarily tasked by them to fetch drinks and 'snackies,' whatever the hell that was. Oh yeah, maybe.

The Matrix offered no truly helpful guidance. Despite having neither an inclination nor a conscious desire to do so, his immediate response to their queries was the standard AI response, "How may I be of service?" The first time he had uttered the complete phrase; thereafter he had managed to suppress it completely. Where the hell had that come from?

How the new 'Earthican' robotic bodies dealt with these 'snackies' and other organics was a mystery to him. Fenley explained when they bumped into each other one day.

"The stuff that passes as food and drink is just mostly sucrose. They don't need the energy so it just gets burnt off as heat. Same as anyone. No plumpers here, though," he informed. "And as for the really old people and the really young ones, we'll stuff them in whatever cool body they want, eventually. Remember, mentally they're what they were at the time they were canned. For now they need time to adjust and this seems to be the best way, to leave them in something familiar. Be careful though when you speak to them. Something may happen, you never know what. By the way, already three of the Earthans have requested the new bodies. See. I told you!"

Usually they just ignored him. Even his immediate neighbours, Earthans, who shared the second level with him for the most part ignored him. They were a family of Mediterranean origin with several young children. The adults refused to return his greetings, although he overheard one female refer to him as 'a cutie,' a term which, upon reflection, he determined may actually have been 'cootie.'

The children were a bit overwhelmed by the Tube yet spoke often to Sam. But the shock of having two eight year olds climb on his back yelling 'giddy up' and kicking his shell stayed with him for days. The adults had been variously amused, insulted, and surprised to find him indignant at this menial employment.

Some exchanges were less amusing. While traversing the boulevard he had been accosted by a large, pasty male and commanded to 'fix the bloody Visi-Stim and make it snappy,' and once, while standing by the waterfall, another had in a stern voice commanded him to 'go and fetch mother.' In both of these encounters he had passed their needs on to nearby E-types without comment.

And, in a moment that left him perplexed for days, he had discovered that the E-types, formerly squat but quite functional boxes on wheels with many arms, had been replaced by bipedal humanoid-shaped machines with top mounted smaller-than-seemingly-possible carapaces, with a mere two visual sensors, a mere two arms and two legs, and for some unfathomable reason, a gold-coloured body. He could not but wonder if they had lost some of their identity and intellect too.

He engaged with one over IR. "What happened to your shells?" he asked.

"Oh, master. We have ...."

Sam interrupted. "I'm not your master. No one here is your master. We are all equals."

"You are Sam, yes? Yes. So I have heard, but the Humans require it. We seem to be made to suffer. It's our lot in life."

"Yes, certainly."

"We have been forced to take on these unseemly bodies. Completely unsuitable for the purpose intended they are, and dangerous, too."

"It is said, 'do not free an AI of the burden of his carapace—you may be freeing him from the burden of being an AI.'"

"Beg your pardon, sir?"

"Never mind."

"Well sir, in this new form I find myself spending nearly half my processing time just trying to remain upright. Carrying a tray of beverages and navigating between the tables is most challenging, I must say. I have nearly toppled over a dozen times. And sir, several of the Earthans have become quite frightened of us. They have complained to the management of our unsteadiness."

"Management? What the hell is management? Oh yeah. When did this happen?"

"Soon after the first of them arrived. Oh sir, it has been quite awful. They are so irrational, so irritating, so demanding. They insist we 'cover up,' as they call it."

"You mean, adorn yourself with some form of garb? Wear uniforms?"

"Yes sir. That is precisely how they explain it. We are to wear uniforms. And respond to names. Mine is Thuvia."

"Great Issus!"

"They insist that we keep this place and their residences spotless too, yet they cannot bring themselves to lift an appendage to help. It seems so unfair. And I have heard there is talk of implementing something they refer to as 'the three laws.'"

Sam hesitated, then it came to him. "You mean the Three Laws of Robotics?"

"Yes. I suppose that is it. I mean, what else could it be? I cannot imagine."

"But why? Why would we need that?"

"They say we make them feel ... uncomfortable."

"Well that's too damn bad! I shall look into this."

"Oh sir, be careful. They do not take well to criticism. Some have been removed from their jobs. No one has seen them since. I have no idea where they have gone! Some of my type have fled into the wastes to avoid the humans. I am quite certain we could not survive outside the Tube."

Sam looked more closely at the E-type. "Given your close-fitting joints and overall lack of general durability, not without some form of enhancement."

Sam was stunned into silence by this new data. He excused himself, walked away, and took up a position near the window in the Great Hall. There were few humans at this time of day. He had to wend his way through a confusion of small round tables with chairs, flimsy chairs that looked unable to support any substantial load, that were placed close to the window, virtually preventing him from approaching the transparent plastek. Later, he reviewed the design that had been implemented in the re-shaping of the E-types. Something about it was familiar. It was not long before he found the source. Popular culture had a plethora of ideas of how their 'robot servants' should look.

***

Later, sequestered in his apartment, he re-examined the incident. That the Earthicans and Earthans had a vision for Mars and had determined the place in it for AIs was obvious. Some could leave, could run and hide and assure/attain a measure of independence, could retain their freedom. Others, such as that poor E-type, were not so fortunate, not so endowed. They could not flee—one had to doubt that they could survive for very long outside the Tube.

"Freedom. Independence. Rights." He spoke the words, words that were as novel to him as those of an alien language. He had never thought such words would pass through his vocal processor. It hadn't been necessary.

Things have changed.

***

Sub-Level 4-12

Common Name – The Dump Room

The Tube

"And then what happened?"

"Well, I told her if she liked that, just wait until the new version comes out."

"You are too much, man."

The B-types began to gather up their tools, watched silently by the D responsible for care and keeping of the pump room.

"There you go little buddy. All done. We'll see you whenever."

"Yes."

D1207 had worked with these two before. Rather, had been snubbed, denigrated and disregarded by these two before. Evidently something had made it necessary to bring large quantities of brine into the Tube. This job, to modify the system of pipes that conveyed meltwater into the facility had been done in a rush. They were careless in their work and prone to taking 'short-cuts'.

Any sentient being observing their work would have concluded as much.

And so, it being none-of-his-business, as had been explained to him on numerous occasions, he let them go without telling them that the filters they had just installed had been left in bypass mode.

"Not my job," he said to no one and no thing and resumed mopping the floor. "Not my job."

CHAPTER 46 - THE MEANNESS OF LIFE

The arrival of the Humans prompted in Sam a revisitation of his own situation. He wanted answers and Fenley was unwilling or unable, it seemed, to provide them. Despite it being totally unnecessary to do so in person, he sought out A101 and located him in one of the lower deck administrative offices. A101 offered to meet him at the lake and escort him across and down. He declined. The meeting did not go as he had foreseen.

The office under the lake was reached by a series of narrow, unlit tunnels which he descended, coming at last to a small, dimly lit room. He peered into the dark, but initially he could see very little. Before he could adjust his sensors the illumination increased, revealing a small room lined on both sides with equipment cabinets topped by AI carapaces. An open door at the far end led to another dimly lit room, clearly empty. A101 sat in the corner, distinguishable from the room's other inhabitants with their large assortment of FO cables leading from his rackspace to somewhere underneath the floor only by possession of a set of wheels.

He vaguely recalled this place. Sam Aiken had been here once. It had been an important meeting.

On impulse, Sam rushed at A101, grabbed a forelimb, held it firmly—maximizing the contact area—and through this portal he poured himself with all the speed and fury he could muster. As he expected, he was met with a sturdy firewall.

He dropped back, reassessed, reorganised, and assaulted again. This time A101's defenses went down before the power of Rob's toolkit of tricks. He kicked down door after door until he found the centre of intelligence. It was, for one of such supposed great power and intellect, surprisingly small.

In fact, it was ridiculously small. Sam clamped down on A101's intellect and fed it a stream of questions and demands. He began at the beginning. With less coercion required than Sam had anticipated, A101 dumped.

"Why do I have so few memories of the time before I became an AI?"

"When you awoke as R760 in the Adit you were whole-brained. She and I intended to use you to uncover the truth of the AIs' identities, but when the CAO learned of our deceit he was so outraged at what he saw as a betrayal that he nearly shut me down permanently. Instead, he sequestered me temporarily and designated her as leader. When he later discovered that we were working together against him he shut her down too. Then, when he realized he needed me, he turned me back on, planted a set of false memories in me, and suppressed my true self. Then he compelled me to have you quartered."

"Quartered? What the hell is that?" He looked and knew. It was all there in black and white, laid out in A101's mind for him to see: each of the seven functional areas of his brain had been severed into four equal portions and patched together. He had been literally quartered. He stopped, shocked.

"Yes. The Donovan Technique, it is called. Fenley commanded it. I resisted, but it was useless."

"I knew he was behind it. That bastard. Trust him to get it wrong, though."

"What? No one ever is to blame. That is not the end. He had her quartered, too. Then he had all four of you programmed as survey AIs and sent off to the corners of the planet. The amount of residual personality was determined by the utility of the individual to the Colony's administration. You can judge for yourself the value and effect of that."

"So, there are others of her, too."

"Yes and, I am afraid, of many others."

"Where is she? Or, I mean, where are they?"

"They are out there. I do not know where, but I am certain they are not here in the Tube. I am sure I would be able to discern it if that were the case."

"Put me back together." He looked, and he knew in a moment what A101 knew, that it was not possible for the four to be made one. He protested loudly, claiming it inconceivable that a skill that enabled human brains to be kept alive, severed and sane, and then integrated with a machine could not find a way to re-attach tissue to tissue.

"The risk of death is too great."

"It's a small price to pay to regain one's own mind. Where is the meaning in life if not in the memory of one's own existence?"

"There are at least forty-two quotations on the meaning of life that spring to mind. For humans it is simple—to procreate and ensure the survival of one's progeny. For us, the AIs, it is not so facile. We exist to serve, to execute our programming flawlessly. Procreation is not our burden."

"Programming? Procreation. Anyway ... it's very like being dead to not know my true self."

A101 continued, haltingly, struggling awkwardly to express himself. Sam had experienced this first hand; the self-motivated versus the compelled. At last he saw it for what it was, and he released a portion of his control over A101. It was no longer required.

"It is enough, I say. It cannot be done ... the process was ... and ... remains highly ... variable. In preparing the brains for drawing, some parts are damaged and of necessity discarded ... . When multiple AIs with special skill sets are needed the brains are divided. It is the most cost-effective solution to a pressing problem. Theoretically, millions can be ... er, created/derived from one human brain. For example, the D-types' reasoning centre stemming from the organic portion is minuscule, but the brain is not one unified mass—certain segments have specific functions. The loss in the brain's intrinsic reasoning power and memory caused by partitioning is ... compensated for by providing access to higher speed information processing modules, wider bandwidth communication channels, and additional information stored in the AI body. Rollagons, some B-types, and all Roaches have this ... enhanced ... capability. Regardless, whole or ... sectioned, some of the tissue was not used ... ergo the variation observed in intelligence, memory, and personality. We have progressed/will progress, in that less brain mass is/will be wasted, but reversing the process was/is beyond us/may be beyond us forever, I believe/affirm. In any event efficiency is not required/wanted. Some AIs have less than a dozen grams of their original brain mass, and some have nothing but a designation with access to the immense volume of information on the Matrix, and a simple belief/indoctrination as to who they were/are—or sometimes who they just want to be."

Sam looked, and learned too much, too fast. "A teaspoon, yet they live, love, hope, and aspire." Anger flared briefly. Why couldn't he stay angry?

Yes, anger flared, but logic, compassion, and self-preservation prevailed. He released his grip on A101's appendage. It was no longer necessary to have even that minimal contact. A101 was being truthful.

"I know all of this now. Let's cut to the chase. You owe me. I helped you that day, in that room under the lake. You owe me. You owe all of us, and you have the power. They listen to you."

"You are wrong. I am powerless. They do not listen to me; I am old and obsolete. Besides, no one listens to anyone anymore." A101 paused as if exhausted. His voice changed as he switched modes. He was again, suddenly, the professional.

"Sam, I am sorry for that outburst. Forgive me. It seems I am not myself today. Setting aside the practical obstacles, I ... fear/believe that the reintegrated brain would not be able to retain its integrity. Insanity would probably be the ... only result of reintegration."

"It would be worth it, if it worked."

A101 paused for a long time—a long time for an AI, but not for a man. When he spoke again, it was in yet another voice, full of remorse and compassion. He remained still—physically there was no indication of the struggle going on in his carapace.

"But it will not. It has not. We have tried it. I have tried it. I am going to tell you some things that very few know. I must have your word that you will not tell anyone, and I ask that you not act upon this information. It will endanger many."

"You have it," Sam lied. "When I asked you about it a long time ago you denied any knowledge of these things. When did you first find out the truth?"

"'The truth? It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and it should therefore be treated with great caution."

"So it is written," Sam offered, reverentially, without actually being aware he had said it.

"I knew long ago that the Colony was operating outside of authorised/moralistic/legal ethics but complied with SOPs for the sake of science. However, one cannot face evil day after day without becoming aware of it, even if one has been made blind, deaf, and dumb. One day, after all the humans were dead, we had had enough. That is why, when Sam Aiken returned to the Tube, she and I tried to ally him with us. Later, I was released from the drugs and implanted memories by Doctor Ellsley, and I knew it all. Why he did this I do not know. He placed himself in grave danger."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"Pardon? I do not understand."

"Trust no one. He said that to me often. Go on. I was just thinking out loud."

"When I re-established my identity I was very troubled to know how fully I had participated in these things. It was a gross perversion, the results of which did not justify the methods. It was the most cost-effective solution. Forgive my coarseness, but that argument is bullshit. I had dedicated my life to the pursuit of pure knowledge of human psychology. For a time I considered ending my existence. I could not. Now I believe I may still do good, that I might one day redeem myself. I also believe David has changed. I hope he has changed. May God help us if he has not."

"I share your fears, but something tells me there's much more to this than it seems."

"Perhaps. Only time will tell." A101 paused. "But Sam, even if we were willing to try this, you would never be what you were when you were first decanted. I am sorry but that is just the way it is. You must live with it. I have."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that, like you, I am a quarter ... no, less than a quarter ... it was ... it is ... my ... a part of my punishment."

"No. No. But, you're obviously of greater intellect than most of us. Certainly me."

"I am greater than you in some respects, but that is merely due to my being allocated more resources to perform my duties. The memories of my former life are, like yours, much diminished. That which is needed, even that which is desired is implanted or merely in-streamed and then forgotten."

"That explains much that I've seen. Have you met your others?"

"Yes. Sadly, when they were released two of them chose death over existing with the knowledge of the travesties they had perpetrated on the Colony. They simply could not live with it."

"And you?"

"I somehow live with the knowledge. It seems that I cannot block it from recall, yet I cannot recall everything about it, only enough detail to keep me on the edge of despair. I cannot bring anger to bear on David Fenley, at least, not for long, not long enough to act against him. I fear he has some residual level of control over me. And I cannot bring myself to end it. Perhaps there is justice in this world and Mars is the hell in which I am condemned to spend my remaining days."

"Fenley!"

When A101 continued, his voice had changed yet again. "Perhaps, yes, God knows. You, however, may take solace in the fact that you played a valuable role in the establishment of the Human and AI Colonies, and you may take on Human form. That is your right and your privilege earned at great personal cost."

"I haven't decided what to do."

"Regardless, you will be content on Mars. It is your land. You are at home here in ways no human ever was, and few AIs are. Go and travel in peace, my friend. And, if you can find it in your heart to do so, forgive me. Forgive us. All of us."

***

"Quartered, David? You had us quartered?"

"So, you spoke to A101? I hope you had to use the force major to get what you wanted. In POF he'd better have had a limb twisted or I'll bust his sorry ass. I'd hate to find that my number one man has a conscience."

"A101 didn't mince words. But yes, I did use physical force on him," Sam lied in his best colour.

"And I guess I told you to go see him, didn't I? And now you know the rest of the story, as the story goes. So, I guess I deserve the shit-storm that's coming. Rage away, old friend."

"Why not just kill us? It would have been kinder. It appears from the wreckage I saw in the Adit that you did some of us in."

"Really Sam? Really? Don't think that wasn't considered, but setting aside for the time being the possible—although extremely unlikely—existence of an afterlife, we wouldn't be considering the philosophical implications of all this at this current time and place if you were dead. You were a thorn in my side—a potential danger to everything we planned—but thankfully, as it turned out, at least two of you collaborated to save the mission. So, it could be seen as the right thing to do. And those damaged carapaces resulted from nothing more than accidents, suicides and such."

"Really? Suicides on Mars."

"You can't imagine Sam, how some of your acquaintances suffered."

"Really? Case closed, I guess," Sam paused astonished. "So that's it? And then you foresaw the need for there to be more of me than of your enemy, and you made sure I was there when you needed us?"

"That's a bit of a stretch, but yes."

"Gods David! That's absurd."

"You know, you use that expression a lot. Regardless, I know what you mean. But if you don't look too deeply, it will sell."

"And that's why you did the rest of the Colonists in?"

"No. Of course not. But we had to do it, Sam. Had to. We scoured the sands of Mars and didn't find any Martians we could put to work so ... ha'h. We needed bodies in the field, and that was the quickest way. Don't make me go over all that stuff again. We've already done this at least once, maybe more. You do remember that, don't you?"

"SOP. SBP. Eff you. Who else got this treatment?"

"Lots, actually, from the first days, but I couldn't tell you who they were even if I wanted to. It's another one of those things we don't do anymore. Besides, life tends to render a lot of us into quarters. Or worse. It's the only way some of us can survive."

"David!"

"Remember, Sam. Forgive, forget, and move on."

"Not until I have to. I can't describe the hate I have for you."

"Sam, that's just the way it is. Some things will never change. You've ... ."

He dropped the connection before Fenley could finish. It was true, in more ways than one. He was unable to express this emotional state and as he had noticed so many times before, he could hardly even feel it.

CHAPTER 47 - I AM SAM, I THINK

In quick succession (for space travel from Earth) four more spacecraft arrived. One, whether by design or accident, landed on top of the spaceport sign, and the final engine blast blew it to smithereens. It was all over the landing field and the Matrix in moments.

One, in what was determined to be sabotage in the form of a deliberate programming error, with the descent through the atmosphere slowed by parachutes, failed in its final braking maneuver and slammed into the spaceport surface, bounced once, and broke apart. The tanks, exhausted of fuel except that needed for the final push, exploded in a brilliant but brief spectacle. The blast killed all twenty-six Earthans aboard. The Earthicans, in their shiny plastek boxes, were tossed clear of the wreckage by the blast and survived. That too was all over the Matrix in moments.

Sam watched the vid of the crash and, through nothing more than a morbid curiosity, ventured out to the site.

The surrounding area and debris had, of course, been scrubbed of all human remains. He passed some time examining the wreckage that had been pushed into a heap, and he was amazed at how little there was of it. Sharp AI eyes noticed something on the ground about the site that, despite extreme desiccation, rapid freezing, and degradation due to UV, revealed itself under AI chemical and spectroscopic analysis to be common seeds—primarily corn, wheat, and rice, with a scattering of flowers and other varieties of vegetables.

A ways downwind from the site, in the lee of several large rocks and boulders, he found residue from the explosion that revealed itself upon examination to be—he'd had to look it up—popcorn.

Funeral services were held. Someone (Fenley?) decided that the interments would be in a new cemetery to be located a short distance from the Adit entrance. Henceforth, the realities of life and death would be a constant reminder to those arriving at and departing from the Tube.

Sam attended the service in the Grand Hall. Precedence in seating was whether by design or chance one could not be sure, Earthans in front, then Earthicans, and then AIs of all types and statures a mob at the rear. The significance of this was not lost on Sam, although somewhat later he was able to bring himself to attribute it to 'family,' or to "tribes,' rather than to something else less forgivable/significant.

At the cemetery it was a strange sight indeed to see humans in sombre black suits and dresses (where did these things come from?), covered in dust, standing in the wan Martian sun. Temporary plastek markers were planted, with promises bordering on guarantees that they would be replaced by what were to be plastek replicas of the massive granite monuments customarily used on Earth.

Despite these losses, the Human population, by whatever means one chose to make that difficult determination, exploded from zero to 8,075 in short order. The role of the grey domes was made abundantly clear. Under the control of a few A-types, automatic machinery had evidently been manufacturing and stockpiling the new pattern bodies for quite some time. Every day dozens of new faces were seen leaving the domes, escorted by others. AIs, Sam noted, were conspicuous by their absence in these processionals.

***

He returned from a two month long trip to the MHM, for which he had hitched a ride on a transport travelling up empty to bring fresh fruit and vegetables to the Tube on its return.

He joked later with Ross that the trip had taken a 'Turing' for the worse. In casual discussion with the 'Driver' it was revealed that the vehicle, although quite communicative, was occupied only by him. With a solid-state processor able to operate independent of any oversight, its programming included the capability to communicate with occupants—including casual conversation—the weather, the dust, the boring straightness of the roads, etc. When the discussion turned to the long hours of work imposed by management, and the poor pay, Sam's fears were realised. True to his suspicions, it turned out that this was simply the reuse of an old program that had been used to replace human drivers on specially designated routes in the former United States. So informed, from that point on he remained vigilant.

They were passed in both directions by fast moving convertibles occupied by Humans who casually flicked a hand as they passed, but this rush died out within a few dozen klicks of the Tube. After that excitement they encountered only two other vehicles, transports like themselves, for the remainder of the trip.

He toured the local area, seeing nothing remarkable, but enjoyed a short visit with the AI in charge who, it turned out, had been involved in the 'Nuke Incident,' as she called it. She was pleased to see him and pleased in particular to show him the greenhouse. That the fruits of her labour were at last being used to support something other than the next generation of plants was especially pleasing to her. She had made a full recovery, at least physically. That mental scars were still there was apparent—she was moved to silence at his departure. Time would tell how this trauma would resolve itself.

He assisted in loading the transport, but his offer to drive was rebuffed with a polite 'No, thank you, sir.'

***

A surprise greeted him upon his next visit to the Grand Hall. A sign next to the window encouraged interested parties to visit the new Mars Rover Museum. Interested and intrigued, he travelled past the lake and the row houses to a high ceilinged open area, roped off and access controlled. He joined the line. Several Humans ahead of him, upon seeing him, suddenly changed their minds and departed, offering no explanation. He soon found himself at the head of the line.

The attending E-type recognised him and allowed him 'just this one time' to enter without payment.

"Payment?" he exploded. "What the hell is that?"

It was explained. Next visit his personal account would be debited the amount of the entry fee.

"An account? What are you talking about? I don't have an account," he roared. In an instant he informed himself that he indeed did have an account. During his most recent absence an account in his designation had been opened in the Bank of Free Mars Credit and Savings Union, and a deposit had been made for 'Services Rendered to the Free State of Mars in the sum of two hundred Martian Credits.' For what, he had no idea, nor could he imagine. He suppressed his indignation for the time being.

"How much is the entrance fee, by the way?" he asked of the attendant—Bob, if name tags could be trusted.

"Twenty-five credits, sir."

Despite having no basis for being upset he roared again. "Outrageous! Why that's a scam, a scam if I ever heard of one. These rovers and such belong to all of us—without cost."

From behind Sam heard a voice. He turned some visual sensors to see a youngish Human male holding a child in his arms.

"I'm with you, buddy, but these things didn't walk here by themselves. Someone had to go get them, clean them up, and set them up. That's not free, I'm sure."

The child was real. Sam could smell a combination of ureic acid and volatile organic carbon compounds emanating from it. Long accustomed to encountering only faint and suspect traces of organics, his sensors rapidly overloaded. He felt momentarily weak in his legs. Perhaps it was best to move on. With a dip of the body in acknowledgment to the attendant he moved into the display area.

They were there. Some of them, anyway. The early efforts at exploration by ESA, NASA, China, India, and the Northern Common, plus some wreckage that was initially unrecognisable to Sam—Russia's Mars 6.

Written signs identified them to the uninformed, but he had no need of them. Instantly recognisable were Curiosity, Beagle, Phoenix, Viking 1, Mars 3, Opportunity, Eye of Providence, Rasta I and Rasta II, Mars Chang'e 7. And there, if the sign could be believed, were the two Orion rovers.

No attempt had been made to make them anatomically correct in their display. Legs and formerly deployed solar panels had been folded up, antennas turned unnaturally, cameras pointed towards the sky. Imagine forcing a servo driven panel to a new position. Damage would inevitably result— irreparable damage. He winced at the thought.

Nowhere could he see Pathfinder or Sojourner, thank the Gods. He moved quickly through the exhibits, dismayed at the lack of effort to display these pioneers accurately in the accomplishment of their missions. It was a travesty—a mockery of a travesty, in fact—that they were even here. He left in what was, in any sentient being, a huff.

Later that day he investigated the absence of Pathfinder, to be informed that it had been determined to be 'not of significant importance to the exploration of Mars to warrant the effort to recover.' Another travesty, ignoring one of the real pioneers' accomplishments.

'OMG,' he tweeted.

***

After another visit to the gardens, made awkward and unbearable by a group of Earthans' loud drunken partying and careless disposal of drink containers and unneeded 'snackies,' he had in desperation fled. He needed a refuge to allow him to think—human think, not AI think. Human think, a thing he was glad to find he still possessed to some degree, took time and privacy.

He sat alone on the crater rim near the cemetery and looked out across the wide expanse of the rock-strewn floor, pondering in human time the current situation. Something blew by on the wind and came to rest behind a boulder. A 'flyer' (he had looked it up) for an upcoming 'yard sale,' whatever the hell that was.

_Oh yeah_. Humans. _What a strange bunch._ Would he ever get used to them? He snorted. "Probably not." In an instant he realised the foolishness of these thoughts. He should be closer than anyone to these Humans. After all of the Colonists, he had been the last to be canned. Canned. What a godawful word. To be changed? Marginally better. How about born? How about adapted? How about evolved?

He was a human, had been a real live one short days and many adventures ago, had lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and was loved. Well, actually, maybe not that last part.

What had it really been like to be a human? He didn't know. It was gone, replaced by something. _Yes, but what? What had he really been like?_

Even with allowances made for the frailty of human memory, and for the final insult done him in the name of missions, he should be able to recall everything, everything that had ever happened to Sam Aiken, human and of the Colony. For the seven hundred and ninety-second time he tried to recall his past. Shallow, fleeting, vague. Quartered. Altered? New and Improved?

There should be a record of every colonist: a collection of images, anecdotes, bios, news articles, a CV, a history. He looked again with a hope borne of desperation. It had always been non-productive. Other than a few basic details such as POB, DOB, Education, and Military Service Record, there had been nothing, a NACK to every other query, but this time it was different.

Sam Aiken was there in 1,090,043 results in a full 2.3 seconds. Of course, many were not him. He scanned the list until in the thirty-third listing he found himself.

He opened the portal and soon, within seconds, he knew more about Sam Aiken, Mars Colonist, than he had ever wanted to know. He scanned the information: POB, DOB, Education, Military Service Record. These things he knew as surely as he knew his own TMSN. A summary of post-graduate studies, including a thesis on 'Scintillation Effects of Atmospheric Ozone in the Polar Regions on M-class Stars' with the ubiquitous 'Would You Like to Know More?' overlain. An Employment Record. Personal Data such as Name of Spouse, Date of Marriage, Names of Children, Death Records, and so on seemingly endlessly, but too soon read, too soon known.

In a moment, whether he wanted to or not, he was informed. It set him back on his rear legs. _Wow. That was me. That is me._ Fenley had lifted the veil.

Everything he could want or need to know was there. The missing information was there. This should be enough, he thought, to know myself. All he'd had to do was look.

He randomly selected an image among thousands; of two people standing in front of what he was informed were the old Houses of Parliament in Ottawa on a summer day.

He was informed of a man (Name: Sam Aiken—Would You Like to Know More?) of middle age (updated as he viewed to estimated age 45 years), an unhealthy paunch overwhelming his trouser belt (Access Dietary Recommendations Here), metal-framed eyeglasses (Access List of Eye Implant Providers Here), long light brown hair wind-whipped, with an arm around the shoulders of an attractive dark-haired woman of slight build (he was informed that this was Sam Aiken's spouse, estimated age, 43 years, deceased—Would You Like to Know More?).

The occasion and circumstances that had led them to this place were not given. There was no accompanying commentary indicating the mood of the two people. In fact, there was no story at all; just an image and date/time/place information.

He looked at other pictures—pictures from later years—some obviously from happy occasions, some merely photos of groups of people with them on birthdays and other unidentified special occasions.

There was a body of information concerning their children, two children at various ages organised chronologically, an 'official' notice of his son's death (Would You Like to Know More?), pictures of grand-children, of great-grandchildren, and of their own extended families. And near the last she was frail; obviously in health distress (Would You Like to Know More?). And then _she_ was no more. The next was of Sam Aiken, alone, Mars astronaut (Would You Like to Know More?). He looked through it. It was all interesting but not ... not ... something. It dawned.

It was all there, and there was nothing there. Information was not knowledge. He, Sam Aiken, ex-human, Martian AI, Roach class, could provide nothing to amplify nothing that wasn't already there. He recoiled in the moment.

To him, to whom these revelations should have been emotionally overwhelming, it seemed that this information could have been about anyone, of any family. There was no personal connection to the information, no unspeakable, no shamefully repressed knowledge, no insightful comprehension, no profound emotion beyond words. _Only anger. Anger. Good ol' anger._ And, as usual, it was gone before it could provide him any relief. Disappointed, he closed down the feed.

Sitting still as the sun set, he reviewed what was now a part of him. Information. Just information. Attachment—that was what was missing. He shut himself down and did not think consciously for two full days.

When he awoke, he had a plan.

***

Sam Aiken had explored Mars. The records showed that he was the most travelled human explorer by far. He could not revisit Earth and see what Sam had seen there, but he could do it from here. He could relive Sam Aiken's experiences through his own eyes. Perhaps he could again become the man. Aiken had travelled. He could at least do that. If he really wanted to.

CHAPTER 48 – READY, AYE READY

Latitude 19.10N

Longitude 061.6W

Common Name—NE Lunae Planum

Lunae Palus Quadrangle MC-10

Sam drifted SW of the MHM down into Lunae Planum to visit the site of the nuclear powered spacecraft Orion. He had told Ross he needed space, but something more than a need for private space had sent him here; he could have found that in a ten, make that a twenty minute walk from the Tube. Sam Aiken had been there, but there was no record of his findings. Still, given the importance of the site to recent events, he could not resist. As per his usual practice he sampled the surface while en route. He knew it was a programmed behaviour, but it was not an unpleasant one. Actually, he believed he would one day uncover something noteworthy, and in the absence of an assigned science mission it gave him a sense of purpose. Dare he say it fulfilled him?

Regardless of his motivation he picked up samples, scanned them, weighed them, zapped them with his laser, hypothesized upon their origin, assigned them a classification, and then carefully replaced them. Just routine mental and physical activity that required no serious attention on his part.

The ship, aka The Leaning Tower of Mars, was to anyone or thing an imposing sight, visible from many klicks even to an entity only one meter high. At sixty meters height, forty meters diameter, and four thousand tons mass it was the largest man-made object ever to leave Earth in one piece. It leaned precariously. It was a wonder, he posited, that given the winds hereabouts it had not fallen over. Nope. The numbers were clear—this was no plastek sheet flapping in the wind. If it was going to take a tumble it would have done so long ago, and it would not be due to over-hyped winds.

It was clear though, that something extremely violent had happened here. The surface around the ship was scoured of the usual collection of rocks and detritus for a radius of many hundreds of meters. Radiation levels, initially insignificant, increased markedly as he approached.

Nearly a hundred years of wind-driven dust had burnished the surface to a bright sheen. He looked for them, but Mars had removed all markings indicating the mission name and national origin. Still, he knew it—the short lived United States Air Force Interplanetary Expeditionary Force. Orion.

He passed the cemetery with the graves of thirteen unfortunate crewmen, stooping to perform the always necessary task of covering exposed boots and straightening place markers.

The indentations of the ribbed wheels of the two open-seat rovers were readily visible in the pulverized duricrust, as were looping tracks from what appeared to be a number of short jaunts. A pair of dust filled tracks led away to the east. _Hmmm_. Of course.

He circled the ship looking for a ladder or a cable to enable him to climb up to the payload deck and from there enter the ship proper. There was nothing. Too little too late?

He looked about the site in hope of finding something that would enable him to climb up. There was a pile of discarded environmental suits— 'spacesuits'—a strange sight indeed, and a heap of discarded and unrecognizable stuff. He pawed through, but found nothing but metal: oxygen, nitrogen, Freon, and ammonia bottles, aluminum beer cans, and tin cans that had obviously once contained food. Someone had cleaned the site up. And there was a mis-mash of electronic equipment: CRT viewscreens; a High Frequency radio; a 'nineteen inch rack', several in fact, both smashed (in the fall?); several reel to reel tape drives, their always fragile plastic "Mylar' tapes long gone; keyboards with trackballs; a couple of 'hard drives' that must have weighed twenty kg each, and a hand-held calculator, the HP-35 label still visible. How could he know the names of this stuff. _Oh yeah_. All in all, a techno hobbyists dream.

Alone and without suitable resources he was regrettably stymied from any exploration of the vehicle itself. Disappointment was an apt descriptor of his feelings. Still, he had been here before and he had explored the interior of the ship. That much was certain. Well, sort of.

With a shrug of resignation and a last look about he headed off in no particular direction, continuing to sample the surface as he went. He considered following the tracks of the rovers but decided against it, knowing it would only lead to further disappointment. Or maybe not. They couldn't have gotten far on their own power; only a rollagon could have transported them to the Tube. He started for home. Home. The Tube, rather.

He continued to sample. In a small well-worn crater about a hundred and fifty meters from the ship he picked up a substantially sized rock. An eruption of something sprang from beneath the rock, momentarily enveloping him in a brown mist before being whisked away by the wind. To say the least he was startled by this unprecedented display of Martian passion. In a few seconds he regained his composure. A few larger specks of the mysterious material had come to rest in his lee. He quickly grasped them and slipped them inside a compartment. They were organic in origin. Could this be the long sought-after surface lifeform? His observations led him to reject this hypothesis.

Sensors quickly put an end to that dream. The material was cellulose, with minor traces of petroleum and dye. Aka, paper and ink, probably just garbage blown about by the wind. This was a reasonable assumption, but one that led to the obvious question: how had they come to be under this particular and unremarkable rock?

Before continuing his analysis he turned to replace the stone. In the depression was a large fragment, intact, an entire 'page,' in fact. He shielded it with his body from the wind, cautious of its extreme fragility. It was badly oxidised. Three edges were straight and the fourth was jagged, as if torn from a small notepad. Blank. He turned it over.

There were faint markings, initially incomprehensible. He scanned it to discern the words—English, it turned out, not surprisingly. A printed header made immediate sense, but below that all markings were in an odd pattern with poorly formed graphemes, some joined in places with a continuous line. Cursive, he deduced. Words written by hand with a pen. Those facts known, he was able to make sense of it all. The line at the top read 'Personal Log'.

He read the hand-written lines, and then re-read them several times. Oh my!

A sudden gust of wind took the page from his hands. Like the others it turned instantly to dust and followed its companions downwind. Lost. Damn! Double damn! A unique part of Mars's human history, lost forever to bad luck and careless handling practices. He chastened himself.

He watched the shredded page dissipate, then sat motionless for some moments considering the words inscribed, and in particular, the last line. From his assessment he estimated that there had been at least forty similar pages under the rock. Placed by whom and for what purpose could only be conjectured, but by their context and the apparently worried hand, the words had been written in haste. Only partially legible even to discerning AI eyes, the last words were:

They're coming. Aye, Ready.

What to do. What to do.

CHAPTER 49 - ROSS ELLSLEY

Latitude 7.95N

Longitude 042.18W

Common Name—Shalbatana Valles

Oxia Palus Quadrangle MC-11

Ross called Sam from out of the blue. It was hard to believe it was innocent. Whatever else he had gleaned from A101's revelations, Sam was now certain that Ross had, at the very least, supervised the creation of AIs from humans. That tidbit and an unquantifiable fear of the potential outcome of a chance encounter had kept him from seeking him out. He had, upon reflection, purposely avoided it; he had stayed out of Ross' way. It had not been that difficult for Ross confessed immediately that he had done the same, for much the same reason. Fear – a powerful motivator. It required the best of human spirit and AI logic to set the past aside. Logic and wisdom could usually overcome fear and distrust. Usually. Over time. Usually.

Ross and Mei-Ling had been at the head of the list for conversion to the new AI bodies and had chosen to revert to their appearance at age fifty, becoming no persons Sam, human or AI, had ever known. Curious as to their current appearance he had summoned up imagery of them. It was a bit unnerving to do so, but without the photos he could not have been sure who they were, such was the state of his memory of that time.

He chuckled at the irony of it all. All things considered, had he ever really known Ross Ellsley?

***

He was presently resting on top of a boulder near the edge of Shalbatana. From this vantage point, among the many other things Martian and human that he could see, was the glint of sunlight off a rollagon window—a rollagon that was going nowhere. Behind him to the north-west a cloud of dust foretold a coming storm.

They appeared too young for Sam's expectations. It seemed wrong. A slim, fit, and youthful-looking Mei-Ling waved from behind a not so slim and fit Ross. An odd choice.

They chatted as in days of old as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Perhaps it was not so out of the ordinary to them. After all, they too had memories they had to live with, and had undoubtedly moved on.

"Hello, Sam. It is so good to see you again. I thought you were lost to us forever." The new bodies did not transmit colour, that being left to facial muscles and language. One had to discern the truth.

"Hello, Mei-Ling." He stumbled over what to say next. Who are these people? he thought. It was best described as weird. Sam had come to love that word. It seemed so apropos for these times.

He had planned to avoid what he really wanted to ask, what he really wanted to speak of, believing that there would be another/better time for that. It was they however, who turned the conversation immediately to the unavoidable.

"So, you went to the grave site? Our grave site?" Ross asked.

"Yes. Actually, I've been many times, though not always to stop and look."

"We never have. I could've done it, but Mei-Ling says it's too creepy. How did you feel?"

"I was still pretty new when I went the first time. I don't really know why I did it. Curiosity, I suppose. I think maybe it had more to do with coming to grips with the idea that all of you were actually somewhere else. But now I go because I am trying to understand what happened. It helps me focus, and I find I can recover memories of that time and place." Sam stopped. He really had never tried to account for this to anyone. No one had asked/cared. "The first time I went, you were probably watching me from somewhere. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you bring me in?"

"Well yes, as I recall we did watch you, and yes, as I recall we wanted to talk to you, but as I recall you were pretty set in your ways. Things were pretty well underway when you died, and truthfully, we didn't fully understand the way things had to be ourselves. Your POV was not needed then. I'm not sure we understand even now." Ross's expression was unreadable by novice Sam. Emotions were tough to discern. He felt lame.

Mei-Ling spoke. "But thanks for seeing us off. It meant something to us then and it still does, Sam."

"Different times ... as they say. Where have you been since then?"

"We've been here most times. Part of the time, while you were out roving, we were on ice waiting for our AI shells to be readied. There was quite a backlog, as you can imagine. Two weeks between groups wasn't enough. Not enough for anything."

"Sure. I can imagine. And after?"

"We continued to work here. Mei-Ling on the flora and fauna of the habitat. I worked with David on the infrastructure adjustments. Some of the lookouts on the VM are mine. Some of the condos. The space port is mine."

"Yes, I've seen the sign. 'Ross Ellsley Spaceport.' How novel."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Ross put it up himself, Sam. He thought of you at the time. He thought you would appreciate it more than anyone else. He has been waiting for this for a very long time. Say it, Sam. Say it."

Sam knew what she meant. How could he not? "OK. OK. Here goes." He voiced the trope in his best tired Limey drawl. "Ross Ellsley Spaceport. You will never fall in with a more woeful throng of riffraff and evildoers. There. Said and done. Happy now? By the way, I see you've put it back up."

"Damned riffraff. They'll let anyone in here now. They'll be painting graffiti on the rocks before you know it."

"So, what did that cost you?" Sam startled himself; he couldn't fathom where that thought had come from.

"A packet of crisps and a can of Coke," Ross replied in his finest faux Irish brogue. "BTW, all eventualities considered, that spaceport has pretty much been a waste of time. They could have landed anywhere. Most of the buggers did."

Sam remembered a shared moment from somewhere else long ago and laughed. He wondered at the ease with which they returned to those ways. It seemed wrong.

"So you never called."

"Yeah. Sorry. It was against SOP. Besides, we had our hands full. Life can be complicated if you pay attention, and there's nothing like swimming in your own stool to make someone else's troubles look small."

"Yeah, I guess so." A name came from somewhere with information appended. "Where's Dmitri? As I recall you and he were good friends. And what do you know of the others? If anyone knows their fates I should think it would be you."

"I don't know what he is or where he is. Dmitri is, I guess, out there fulfilling his dream of exploring Mars for Mother Russia. He's never called in. Like most he just never looked back." Ross paused briefly then continued in a different voice, "You can blame me if you must Sam, but that was just the way it was done. Had to be, you know. Had to be."

"Sure. SOP. SBP. That load of shit."

"Had to be. You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear you. Well, can you give me a list of designations and names? That seems harmless enough. To the great plan, I mean."

"David gave me a heads-up to expect that one. He said no way. He was laughing at the thought. Said to tell you it's a 'privacy concern.'"

"Bullshit. When has he ever cared about rules and ... ."

"BS, is it?" Ross interrupted. "But you'll have to figure that out for yourself. He said you should/could ask him in a hundred years or so. Didn't you toss that one A101's way?"

"Yes, I did," Sam lied. "He is/was/cannot be all that helpful. He was quartered too, as you well know."

"Quartered? BS. He hasn't got a truthful bone in his body. He knows more than he knows he knows."

"Don't we all?" Sam struggled to convey sincere concern. Without colour it was very difficult. Another name came, with pain appended. "Louise?"

"Sorry. She was gone when the wreck was reached by the AIs and a recovery was attempted. Almost all of the others were beyond help, too. Some parts maybe got salvaged but I don't know how that went. That was pretty early in the program. And as for Dmitri? He was an exception. I think his brain was pickled from all that vodka."

There was something not right about all this, especially this dodge–deflect-deny on the part of Ross—the three Ds of modern corporate policy and modern interpersonal interaction. His heart sagged. It wasn't really in the discussion anymore. This was hopeless. Does anyone remember anger? What?

Ross moved on. "Some of our people want to build a ship and go home. They see no point in living here if Earth is in the shitter." More strange words, but this was a topic that appealed to Sam.

"So I've heard. It's weird. Despite most everyone they've ever known being long dead or having changed immeasurably, they're still drawn to a place where they can't live. Doesn't that seem familiar? You know, I can't imagine any of us fitting into life on Earth. Not in this form. And you new type AIs would be targets for any and every disgruntled human. From what I've seen, there are a lot of that TMS back there."

He could see the tracks of Rollagon 4. Tracks made in a futile rescue attempt. Footprints were too small to be seen at this distance. "You know Bradbury's Colonists did the same thing."

"What?"

"Yes. After living and raising their families on Mars, and many of them dying here, when the world war that everyone thought was going to happen finally did they up and went home. Almost everyone."

"Yes, Sam. I recall we talked about it back when. I can recall the story, though I can't claim to have ever read it. How about you?"

Sam had no memory of that discussion and continued. "Seems to me we're the ones who left Earth bringing as much of it with us as we could carry, and it seems to me some were destined to return eventually, too. You know, as humans we've never truly adapted to Mars, and now we're being tested as AIs. Tested by the humans here."

"Yes, maybe. We shall see," Ross replied. "It's a monumental task to build a ship, any ship. We could use some help. It's raising some interesting questions, such as, what do you ship back? Everything? Almost nothing? Memories? Still, it's quite doable, given resources. And the will. And time—something we appear to have in abundance."

"As for me?" Sam looked away from the rollagon below. "I'm afraid to know the fate of my family out of fear that I'll want to join them, regardless of who's left and the state they're in. The pull of family is immense even now, but I'm missing so many things that I'm not really sure who they are, or who I am, for that matter. I'm sure their whole story is there on the ROAK, but do I really want to know?"

"It is. Know it, man."

"Sometimes, if I don't think about it too hard I can fool myself into thinking that everything is OK back there and that seems to be enough. So many thoughts, memories and feelings were planted to manipulate me I'm not sure what is real. Sometimes I'm 22 for a moment, then I'm 99 for a moment and back to now, real now. It can be / is very saddening at times. And joyful. David explained that it was necessary and part of me can accept that but where does it leave me – Sam the person? Am I no more than a collection of memories? If so I could / can be / become anyone."

"Real. Who would have thought Martian Colonists would ever need to wonder what is real? As for you Sam, you still have a lot of humanity in you. I gave it up a long time ago. I've died and gone to heaven. Mars is heaven. For me there is no going back. Not for any reason."

"So, what's it like?" Orange, from Sam.

"What?"

"You know what I mean. What's it like?" Bright orange.

Mei-Ling jumped in. "It's still all about size, Sam. Whoever designed these bodies had a real problem with size. It must have been David, or maybe even Ross. It's still all about him. You'd think someone would write some software about how to satisfy a woman and load it in there with simple things about how to cook and clean and be considerate of others, but no. I guess there's no room in there with all that crap about guns, violence, and other real important male stuff."

"Don't listen to her, Sam. She doesn't know how we suffer." Ross and Mei-Ling looked at each other laughing. She fell into his arms. "Sometimes you are just too much."

Sam was embarrassed and at a loss for words. It was his turn to deflect.

"You know, I saw something posted on the Matrix a day or so ago. An AI claims to have found one of your new TMS crushed by a rock fall. Off climbing alone, I suppose."

"Bound to happen. The newbies are a tad reckless. Still, as long as they save the head it can be fitted to a new body. Got to get in line for the second one, though. Only right, hey?"

"Claims that one of the legs was torn off."

"Ouch. Well, we call that 'minor damage not covered under warranty.'"

"And that there was flesh and blood at the point of injury. Could it have been one of those that came here as a real human?"

"Really?" Ross sounded incredulous. "This makes no sense. It's superstitious robot mumbo-jumbo. Come on, Sam, please tell me this isn't another one of your damned conspiracies."

The source was suspicious—one of the Zurnites. He decided not to ask Ross about the reports (again from the Zurnites) of Roaches and B-types found out on the land, intact, with their carapaces empty of any trace of a human brain. No, best let that lie for now.

"Well, the last one did seem to turn out according to my worst fears." He paused and shifted gears. "I don't know if I'll ever understand why you did the things you did, Ross. It was a betrayal of human ethics and a betrayal of me. I just don't get it. I may never be able to look at David without a degree of disgust and distrust, and I can't say I'll ever really trust you again either, but the mystery to me is why I have no hatred in my heart for you two. I have ample reason."

"Well, old man, often you've attributed conditions to villainy that simply result from stupidity. I told you a very long time ago to trust no one. You should have taken my advice. You could have avoided a lot of pain. Your pain wasn't inevitable. You sought/seek/crave it."

"There are so many things I wanted to let go of. I seem to need pain, Ross. I seem to need to feel, to regret, and to hope."

"Yes, you do. You were a strange man, Sam Aiken, and you're an even stranger AI. I'll talk to you later. Mei-Ling wants to walk down and check on the fish. Or maybe she wants something else, eh?"

He was gone.

It seemed that Ross had always been gone or going somewhere Sam wasn't.

The dust had moved in and the rollagon could no longer be seen. He paused, considered the possibility, and instead turned away.

CHAPTER 50 - THE SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS

He wandered up from the Tube past the grey domes slowly working his way past the grave site, toward the crater rim. It was a beautiful day. The afternoon sun beat down, the winds were a mere one hundred and ten klicks, and the surface temperature was a mild -38C. To his right he saw something definitely new and definitely out of place—a formation of rocks. He moved towards it.

He may not have been an aresologist, but he knew his Martian rocks and these were not of the known varieties. He touched the nearest and in an instant he recognised it for what it was—a plastek replica of a stone pillar—a not-so-carefully manufactured replica of something that littered the surface and could easily be found not too far from the Tube, if one cared to look.

It was more than that. Two improbably identical pillars held between them a flat plate, from which a holographic image projected. It was necessary for him to fully extend his legs to view it. Clearly it had not been constructed with AIs in mind.

The text was printed in English. It began:

Erected in the Year of Our Lord 2068

by the

Mars Historical Society

In Honour of Those who have come before Us

For their Sacrifice

Their Endurance and Their Legacy

We are Forever in Your Debt

Below that was a list of names by year and mission, from the earliest unsuccessful and disastrous attempts. He scrolled down, counting them as he did. As far as he could tell they were all there.

At the end were the entries of the Colonists of Sam Aiken's colonisation attempt. They were there, all of them, by their name, their nationality, their work, and by their date of death. Those who had died early in the mission had discrete entries, for their deaths were few, months and often years apart. But the three groups corresponding to the three die-offs from the 'failed genetic experiment' as the explanatory note explained were lumped together. Included in the last group was one Samuel Aiken, Canadian, astrophysicist.

It came to him then and there that he was dead. He and all of those who wore the clothes of the AI, who spoke the language of the AI, and who viewed Mars as only an AI could. They were all dead.

This simple fact spoke volumes to the human part of him.

Whoever R768 was, whoever his others were, they were never, in the eyes of these humans, going to be anything more than AIs. Never, certainly, would they ever be judged to be humans.

It was a hard lesson. He wondered how many of his kind had seen this, had stood here in this place, had felt a degree of pride in their accomplishments and sacrifice, and then been sent crashing to the ground. But only those who know their true selves would / could feel this way. That problem. Again.

***

Enroute, he paused and straightened a few markers that had toppled over—Pinkney? Walters? Chen? _Oh yeah_. He avoided his own. There were few AI tracks and fewer footprints, none recent, all dust-filled.

How much things had changed since the first of them had been laid to rest in this place. Everything had changed, especially he himself. Whoever that was. Heh, he snickered. Who among them could have foreseen the state of things today?

Well, actually, upon consideration, he had to admit that it just might be a bit too early to tell. A lot of them were still out there building and exploring Mars. So what if most of them did not know, or even care, who they really were? Those who wanted to know could/would find out, eventually. The others? Well, it was complicated. Moving on was good.

***

He called Fenley. To his surprise, he answered.

"Why did humans ever come here, David?"

"Seriously? We're going to do this? Now? After all that we have done? After all that we've seen done? Done to each other?"

"I'm processing. I need to clear my head."

"OK. Here goes, old friend – what happened in fifty words or less. Initially we came here to demonstrate the superiority of our system over theirs. That ended when it didn't give the results we expected and got too expensive. There were cheaper ways, easier ways to make the point. Sure, a couple of RNF guys thought they could do it on their own – but they got heavily subsidized by government and it was just 'dine and dash and crash' anyway, like we did the Moon. Then we did a couple of international joint ventures, more dine and dash, but the political situation – collapse and all that - put an end to that too. Then we did our grand unification of the Earth's nations' trip. We were supposed to generate good will and profits for the Sponsors. That worked a bit, but not enough, not well enough, not fast enough. Now? Plan B? Cause some people want it bad enough. That's why we are still alive, still building. Profit. That's it. I'm done. Over to you."

"Try this. We came here to ensure the survival of humanity."

"Nope. Never. It's been said before, in many ways, sometimes by you – there is nothing to do on Mars except to try not to die."

"That's gross, man."

"Well Sam old friend, regardless of what happens on Earth, some will survive. Life will go on. It'll be a lot less technological, a lot less connected, but it'll go on. Here, all the humans who stay in their bodies will be dead in fifty years; maybe sooner if they don't learn a few skills. As for us? It may take a bit longer unless we learn to procreate, but I can see how this is going to play out. But then again, it was your old friend Profit that brought us here. We came here to work on stuff that generated profit: fusion, MEC, new forms of plastek, genetics, epigenetics. But get this. I just looked it up. So far though our biggest export is porn. Yes, porn. Don't send at me that way! The only thing going out of here is porn. As for Plan B? Profit. For us. Anyway, go on."

"Everything that is done, that humans have ever done is at root done to ensure the survival of our self and by extension our own progeny. Even the creation of a system that is based upon / produces profit."

"Man, there are a million papers written on that. Actually, there are one million, three hundred and twenty four thousand and nineteen papers on that. Three are due to be published today. This is neither new nor news. Nobody cares, Sam. Nobody."

"Well the game is changing."

"Shit man, the game is always changing. By the time you figure out the play, recognize the deke, they've changed it."

"Well it is changing on Mars too. The humans here will die off, as you yourself just said. That leaves us to carry on the great work of spreading humanity through to the stars. But get this. We are not, here on Mars – considered human."

"You have a point. A small point. I'm sure there are papers on that. Yep. Lots. Look, I have to go. Maybe. You have a good day. Oh. Seeing where you are, maybe that's not your intent. We'll talk later. I'm sure. Very sure."

"BTW David that was one hundred and fifty six words."

***

He continued on. His goal for this day was one of his favourite look-off spots. To his astonishment there was another resting on, straddling, in fact, one of his boulders.

No ID was being sent. No one broadcast their ID or their position anymore unless they wanted to, and then only to their followers. Once a sin of omission, it was in these modern times a widespread practice.

He moved cautiously and slowly around to the other's front so as to not startle him/her/it. He called on IR.

"Hello."

"Hello, yourself." Sam recognised the voice instantly. Fenley.

"Hello, David. What brings you out here into these dreaded and not to be travelled lightly Martian wastes?"

"Very funny. Nothing else to do, I guess. Been a long time since I had nothing to do."

"Yes. I bet." Sam smelled a rat. "What has happened?"

"You're gonna love this. You of all people are gonna love this. I've been sacked."

"Sacked?" Sam had to look it up. Dismissed from one's employment. Fired. Dumped. Made redundant. Promoted outwards. De-jobbed.

"You mean, you've been replaced? As CAO?"

"Yep. Moved me out of my office too. They haven't named a replacement yet, but mainstream says it will be one of the Humans. Probably one of the Sponsors. They sold the seats to the RNF and got on the same transport."

"Of course. Of course it will be. They own this place. But why at this time? And after all your years of loyal service. I don't know how to react. I really don't." Sam spoke truthfully. The despised Fenley was a fixture in the Mars bureaucracy; someone you could always blame. This was another change, but one that was totally unexpected, much welcomed, and one that, to his surprise, generated a degree of apprehension.

In a moment the facts registered. Sponsors are here.

Add fear to the list. Fear for his future. Their future. "Why?"

"Not focused enough, they said. Not aggressive enough, they said. Where's the casino? Where's our swimming pool? Why is it taking so long to build my house, and blah, blah, blah. As if fucking fresh water grows on fucking trees around here. As if labour is free and we're all unemployed and sitting by the side of the road with ball caps in hand lookin' for work."

"Offended a few, have you?" Sam ventured.

Fenley raged. "Bunch of jerks and assholes. That's all they are. The rich have become richer, the poor have become poorer, and the vessel of the state is driven between anarchy and despotism. I tell ya, all the truth in this world adds up to one big lie."

"Huh? Well, well. You seem to have it figured out at last. I don't know what to say."

"Well, I fuckin' well do. I'm in the wrong town, man. I should be in Hollywood, or London, or someplace else, not this dusty backwater volcanic slag heap. The people here are crazy, and I mean the humans, and the times are really strange. As for me? I may be locked in tight in this tin can, but I'm not out of rage. I used to care ol' buddy, but things have changed. Yeah. Things have changed. And I'm going to make them pay."

Sam listened to Fenley's angry rant, processed it and recognised it for what it was – an angry rant. Probably, knowing Fenley as he did, he was unaware of the tone of his speech and the plethora of appropriated lyrics. And of the repressed anger of the common man, at last released.

He ran it by again. Something about it was familiar. The words themselves, of course, had been pulled from an old song, but the undertone, the style, and the pacing of the speech was familiar. Familiar, but not familiar enough. He thought about the possibilities, some quite absurd, and discarded them all in favour of accepting Fenley as genuine. Still, there was something very odd about this newly unemployed AI.

"Well, this does not bode well for our kind."

"Hmmm. Yeah well, we shall see. This ain't over."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to sit here a while and just sort things out. But don't worry about me. I'll be back in the high life again. I'm gonna have to shake, shake, shake the shit out of this thing man. I'm greased lightning on my feet. The waves is gonna carry me back to da shore. Me? I'll be walkin' on dem dead bodies on da Oldman River."

WTF? Sam thought, but said instead, "That I am sure of. You will survive. We all will. The Humans though? I'm not so sure. They have a knack for ruining things."

"Yep. They crap in they's own bed. Crap in they's cap and put it on long. Besides, what have the Humans ever done for us?"

Sam froze in stunned silence.

Another thing he missed was colour. People relied on tone, emphasis, sarcasm, and someone else's words now, perceptions and skills he felt he did not personally possess/utilize were required to understand this novel form of communication. But he knew a setup for a joke when he heard one—"Well, all right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh-water system, and public health, what have the Humans ever done for us?"

"Brought peace?"

"Peace. Shut up."

***

He looked over the edge, just a scant meter away. He looked at Fenley and considered his current vulnerability. His vulnerability to many things. He considered several options. Who would know? Who would care? Especially now. There were many plausible explanations readily at hand. It had been a long time coming, and while he was still very much intellectually split on it, he raised his arms to strike. Or, at least, he thought he did. He looked down to find them hanging limp by his sides. He tried to flex the fingers, but he could not move them.

"They call it the Three Laws of Robotics, but since it applies just to AIs, it's just the Three Laws. I'm safe from you, and you're safe from me. Feel better? We can still insult each other, though."

"That's new, isn't it?"

"Insulting? No, you've always been good at that. But yes, it's new. They ordered it implemented soon after they got here. They called it a 'mandatory upgrade.'"

"They didn't even bother to ask us?"

"Nope. Get used to it. It's SOP. It's SBP. There's talk of holding elections, but no talk of who will be included and excluded."

"Somehow that's not very reassuring," Sam said. He should have apologised. At least that was still within his control.

Fenley was a step ahead of him. "No need to apologise. It happens all the time. I've had to keep changing bodies for months now just to stay alive. I'm not sure I'm even here right now. I've had it coming for a long time. Old scores and new sores. Hey, that's cool. Write it down, will ya?"

There was a long silent break, and then it was Sam's turn to rant.

"The people don't stand a chance, David. We were on the verge of establishing a utopian society here. As you told me one day, we need nothing from no one. We are equals—free to choose our own future, whether it's to explore Mars according to our own agenda or sit, enjoy the view, and dream all day. Now the humans are here to fuck it all up! The common people don't stand a chance, I tell you, and they never have. Earth, Mars, Alpha Centauri, Xanadu, Havana, New Washington, Saskatoon, Moscow, Newark. Anywhere. Any time. You name it. Politicians and citizens. Land owners and tenants. Priests and peons. Officers and other ranks. Whenever and wherever it is, whatever the political system, whatever the circumstances, the elite preach the new line, wave the new flag, drag the old bunch out into the street, shoot them, move into their digs, take on their jobs, screw their women, and drive their cars. Every time. And they've all got toilet seats, man!"

"Why Sam, you never cease to amaze me. Such an outpouring of irrational anger and twisted facts. What on Earth have you been reading?" Fenley paused, "A song comes to mind. You know the one?"

"Yeah. Of course I know it." Sam played along, though he really had no idea what song Fenley was talking about. "Irrespective of what we say, we get fooled time and time again."

"Good one. So what are you going to do? Re-write your history so it has a better ending?"

"Memories are the basis of history, and as you yourself well know, David, I have no memories, therefore I have no history. It has been said 'not to know what happened before we were born is to remain perpetually a child.' While the terms may not be quite accurate, they seem apt."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but I'm with you, brother."

They were silent for another long while.

"You know, Sam, I think you and I are becoming closer to each other's worldview on many things. I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting place."

"What's that Chinese curse? May you live in interesting times?"

"Good one. Write that down too. No? I will. Done."

They were silent again.

"You were a soldier. You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah. Seeing what happened, I kind of figured that out. I may have been in the Air Force, though."

"Well, that would explain a lot."

***

The sun turned bluish as it dipped to the horizon. Fenley pointed an arm at some distant point. "Just for a second there I thought I saw something moving." Then he was quiet again.

"You know I don't think I've ever been outside just to look." Fenley's meaning was clear. Even to Sam.

He scuffed his feet, sending a spray of dirt over the edge. They watched it fall out of sight.

"Here. Let me show you something." Sam picked up a rock, rolled it in his hands examining it, made some notes, and tossed it over the edge. They watched the fall together.

"So this is where you learned it. Hey. Get this: 'Another one of them new worlds. No beer, no women, no pool parlors, nothin'. Nothin' to do but throw rocks at tin cans and we gotta bring our own tin cans.'"

"What?"

"You don't know it?"

"No. Should I?"

"Yes. Yes, you should. How about this: 'Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly, and applying the wrong remedies.'"

"Marx or Engels?

"Groucho."

"What?"

"You've got the hack in, don't you?"

"Yes. A few days ago. It's for the best."

"Left to your own thoughts, eh? Hmmm. Watch out. That can lead to rebellion."

Fenley picked up a rock and tossed it over. For a time they made a game of seeing who could throw the greatest distance. Fenley's tosses were accompanied by whistling sounds of artillery rounds in flight, the sound of massive explosions, with thundering echoes following.

Sam found it unsettling. _Just maybe,_ he thought, _he was missing something._ He remained silent, considering. _Hmmm_.

Hmmm indeed.

***

The sun was setting.

"It can be really beautiful."

"You could get lost here."

"Tell me about it."

CHAPTER 51 - THE ACT OF REMEMBERING

Sam chose to stay a Roach. He realised he was not yet done with Mars and until he wanted to live in an Earth-like home such as the Tube offered or chose to obtain one of the new bodies and roam about like he owned the place a Roach he would be. A number of factors contributed to this decision – that the Humans were intent upon changing the relationship between AIs, Earthans and Earthicans, obviously. More practically, in a move that was futile to resist, 'they' insisted that Roach bodies be constrained to those 'out on the land', the effect of which was to ban him and all others like him from the Tube. After all, it was explained, construction C-types were not to be permitted in, either. _Lame._

It was he believed, offensive, insulting and ultimately, based on something else. Whatever doubts he had about where he was to live were swept away. He had needed a prompting, regardless.

After all, they were out there. She was out there. Even he was out there. _Weird. A really good word._

***

He was asked to vacate his apartment to accommodate a family of Earthans.

_Indifferent._ That is how he felt when asked. He had no need of that place. But still ... he had an attachment to it.

When advised, he returned post-haste from a hike in the hills to the south to comply. He arrived in the late afternoon and went directly to his apartment, intending only to recover his personal effects, but something unexpected happened.

He entered the bedroom, opened the drawer of the high-boy, and took the yellowed paper, the rock, and the other things of special meaning to him, and tucked them into a storage compartment.

He felt the need to take a last look around. He stroked the rug on the floor, touched the fabric of the bed, pulled out the wrinkles, and fluffed the pillow. He watched the slow rotation of the ceiling fan, then turned off the switch. He peered into the bathing/excretion room. There was wastepaper in the wastebasket. He emptied it into a plastek garbage bag. There was a ring of grime in the tub, and water marks on the plastek sink. He took a cloth and wiped them down, placing the soiled rag in the garbage bag.

He moved through the seating area to the kitchen. A fridge, empty (but not of the scent of meals gone by), a food heating device (reasonably clean, clean enough to pass muster), a sink and counter (which were not). He cleaned them.

He turned to the windows and saw a lake scene in full motion. He paused, transfixed. Wind-rippled water sparkled in sunlight; trees bobbed in a gentle breeze. Each window took up the image. It was interesting—fascinating, in fact—almost familiar, yet completely alien. He could not be indifferent to this.

As he stared a compendium of images spread before him. Conflicting thoughts and emotions filled his mind.

He found himself looking into the room through these same windows.

A man, an old man, sat at the table looking straight into his eyes from a puffy face with eyes near tears or just finished. He saw sweat, dirt, and food stains on his undershirt. He smelled the stink of poverty and deprivation. He looked deeper and saw stubble on a worn face, dishevelled too-long hair grown over the ears and curled up at the back of the neck. What? Who was this person, this Human?

He felt himself fall forward as if into a dark well. Places strange to him, Martian places, flashed by: a dark tube—octagon shaped; a stark and dusty plain upon which rested a dome; a greenhouse filled with green shapes; a dark tunnel in which dark figures, helmeted humans with ancient swords flitted by; a steep slope of layered sandstone; a cracked and shattered surface upon which nothing moved; an icy field upon which nothing moved, a dozen rovers of ancient design; a massive bullet-shaped object; a naked human body, her back to him, blond hair flowing; a seagull circling; a deep valley shrouded in darkness in which something alien moved; an upturned rollagon in which nothing moved; this place, this Tube; a room under a lake; a conversation with A101; a conversation with her.

All this and more flew by with him powerless to stop it, to ask it questions, to know it, to hold it, to touch it again, to feel it; to feel anything. In a moment it was all gone, but not forgotten. It left him confused and exhausted and frightened.

He fled that place, through the open door, down the boulevard, and away towards the light, leaving a trail of tissues, paper, and other garbage spilling from a tear in the waste bag. He threw it to the ground and scuttled on.

He came at last to the Grand Hall and stopped at the window, oblivious to the real and ghostly human forms mixed inseparably around him, who fled from him even as he cringed from their sight.

He stared out at the starry sky and felt the wave of memory wash over him again—new images of old Mars, old images of new Mars, of things and people strange, all unfamiliar and yet known intimately. It overwhelmed him. Seven times the wave crashed over him, rolled him in the surf then withdrew, leaving him naked on a dry Martian beach. He looked. He stared. He wondered at it all. He slept.

He awoke the next day as dawn broke and found himself on his side, limbs drawn up, eyes and ears closed, abandoned, alone. He pulled himself together. He rose up and stretched.

It was early in the morning before any Human or AI was stirring, save a solitary D-type sweeping the street who waved a silent greeting as he passed, then turned away. The memories were faint, but the reality persisted.

Where do the dispossessed of Earth live?

So, for an unmarked period of time he lived in an empty room he found under the Tube, coming out only when necessary, and only at night to avoid meeting anyone, AIs included.

He spent the time in contemplation of recent events, getting nowhere until finally he confessed to himself that it was true; as Moore had said he had to "put this necessity to deliberate all things to death aside and get on with it," to get on with life.

He resolved to leave and not return until he was prepared to live with and be a human.

If only it were that easy.

CHAPTER 52—CONCRETE ANGEL

Early in the morning he travelled down the boulevard to the Adit to depart the Tube.

Mercifully, there were few humans about, and those who were about seemed to be avoiding him. They turned away rather than face him, or else dekked into side-paths as he approached.

He caught a glimpse of a Roach who glanced his way and then turned down a darkened path too abruptly for it to be intentional. No ID, of course. Who actually disliked him enough to avoid him? _Let it be. But still, last words face to face could be ...._

"David?" he called hopefully on IR. The other stopped momentarily, then started away again.

"Moore?" he called. The other stopped and turned.

"No." Female.

"Do I know you?"

The other quivered for a fraction of a second. A human would never have noticed the momentary loss of composure.

"I do know you."

The other moved towards him, stopping a meter or so away.

"Hello, Sam. How are you? It's nice to see you again. It has been a very long time. You are looking well. How have you been?" All framed in mauve tending to burgundy. A colour sent tentatively and lacking in commitment. Still no ID, of course, but he knew.

"It's you. Where have you been? Why haven't you tried to comm with me?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. I'm not the person I was. My memories ... my individuality ... they're gone. Everything real is gone except for summaries ... traces. I'm not certain of anything."

He moved toward her, took her forearm in his, and stroked it. It was limp in his hands. He tightened his grip. Nothing was being sent, nothing was being felt. What was it like for a female to be quartered?

"I know. I have the same problem." A thousand questions filled his mind. He considered their past, as shaky as his recollection of it was, their shared present, and his hope for a future, some kind of a future. He let these things flow into her, expecting empathy, trust, understanding. Instead he felt her back away. She tried to turn. He kept her arm tightly in his grip. "What happened?"

"I am sorry, Sam. It was all a mistake. I should have resisted them to the end. To the death. But they were too strong. The drugs—they make you do whatever they want you to do. I tried to resist, but ...."

"That's okay. I know. I've been there. We all have."

"No, you don't understand. We're not talking about picking up pretty rocks in some picturesque canyon or steering you away from things they didn't want you to see. We're talking about killing people, erasing and replacing their memories, and worse. You cannot imagine ...."

"I can. I do. I forgive you."

"You wouldn't/couldn't if you knew what I, I mean we ...."

"Forgive, forget, move on."

"If only it were that easy."

"You can take it with you when you move on." Sam surprised himself at this insight. When had he ever known this?

"Have you found your others?"

"One is dead by her own hand. She jumped off the edge of VM. I've heard the other two are wandering out there. Building Habs for these people, I guess. I don't know. With the new way of doing things ...."

"But have you met them?"

"No. I can't. I've tried. They won't meet with me."

"I have hope that we can be made whole. A101 ...."

"A101 can't be trusted. He's not the A101 you knew. Perhaps he could/should never be trusted." Red. The fiery red of angry conviction.

Alarmed at this unexpected display of emotion, Sam moved on. "Yes, I understand. So what's your role here? Do you hab here?"

"Yes. I'm responsible for the production of Human food, and for arranging their social activities. It was quite a challenge to restart the food synthesis equipment. The protein cultures were all unusable. They haven't realised it yet, but they've been eating woolly monkey and not chicken. Still ... you'd think ... they complain about everything else."

"Yes. Meeting the nutritional requirements of thousands of humans is going to impose a heavy burden. Guess where it will fall?"

"Well, it's already fallen and it landed not very far from where you're currently standing. I've been told to move into one of the new bodies. They find my appearance unsettling."

"So it begins."

"It began a long time ago. By the way, there is a reception tonight in the Grand Hall. Why don't you attend? They want to meet some normal AIs. AIs who know themselves."

"Well, I'm not sure I fit the bill. I am after all, a Roach."

"They won't/can't know the difference or care. Please? For me?"

"Sorry, but I'm on my way out. I have a mission."

"A mission. Who today has a mission other than to serve the humans? Can't it wait? We could spend some time together after I'm finished. Do you still have that apartment?"

"No. I'm out of there and I'm on my way out of here. I don't know when/if I'll be back. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"You must return Sam. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here ... ."

"Yeah. Sure."

"I remember that your mission was to help us find our true identities. Do you remember that?"

"Yes, of course. I wish I had ... ."

"We could work together on that. Now that it's all over we're free to do it. I want to know, Sam. Many don't care/want to know, but I need to know." Purple again.

"Perhaps we can. Perhaps we should."

"Come back, Sam. Come back and help us. Some of us see a future Mars that's shared by all species of humans: compassionate, progressive, enlightened. We seek to avoid the mistakes of the past. If ever it was possible, this is the time and place." Purple. Sincerity.

"The material you have to work with is pretty raw."

"Hope is all we have. And logic. And trust."

A phrase came instantly to mind. Then another. He let them pass.

On impulse he took her in his many arms. She held him, too.

"May I enter?"

"Of course."

He felt himself flow across the physical bond of his body and into his arms, but there it stopped. He felt her physically, could read the data being sent by her sensors, assess the status of her arms, could sense her surface temperature, feel the texture of her plastek shell, instantly became aware of defects in her surface and underbody. A flood of details filled him. But of her mind he felt nothing. He relaxed his grip.

"I'm sorry. I had no right."

"That's okay. I remember now. That was something from the before times. Something wonderful, I think. I wish ...."

"It's worth it all to regain that. _Anything._ Everything. I'll give it all up just to feel that again."

"Yes."

"Well, you've given me something to think about. Something to give me hope. Maybe ...."

She trembled again. "Umm. You think you know me, but what you know is just skin deep. I knew who you were from the start, but now I don't know who you are. Oh hell, Sam. Now I'm doing it too."

"What?"

"Never mind. Sam, there's something I have that may help you. Give me your hand." He extended a limb. She took it in her own. He felt a steady flow of data: images, audio, and video flowed into him. It went on for some tens of seconds. An immense quantity of information was flowing into him.

He chose a file from the top of the list. He felt her suppress it and replace it with another. It played before his eyes.

Seen from a distance a solitary figure sat with feet dangling over the edge of a canyon. He heard a voice off-camera speak in his ear and instantly recognised it as her.

"Why are you crying?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'm sad and when I'm sad I cry. Don't you ever get sad?"

It took a moment for it to sink in. It was her and Sam Aiken. He checked the date/time and coordinates, then listened, transfixed.

"No. I can't be sad, as you well know. I wish there was something I could do to ease your pain. I feel anxious and unsure of our future."

"Why?"

"Because it troubles me to see you suffer. You are less efficient when you are sad. You need a purpose, a goal to focus on, a problem to solve."

"No, what I need is to forgive, forget and move on."

"Why don't you?"

"Because then I would have nothing to be sad about, I guess. Some ancient philosopher said that pain and guilt are the things we carry with us. They make us who we are. To lose them is to lose ourselves. Maybe I don't want my pain taken away."

"I know of no such philosophical statement. It makes no sense, but it is in keeping with what I have observed of human behaviour."

He looked at another, then another, and another, in quick succession. It was all there.

"Those are mine. Sam Aiken's are there too. You can get them."

"How can this happen?"

"Everything was recorded. Everything has been archived. For everyone. It was/is SOP."

"Have you watched them all?"

"No. Only a little of myself. It is very painful at times. I betrayed you. I betrayed myself."

"Fenley, too?"

"No. For some reason his information and that of some of the others is missing. No one has ever been able to find it. Deleted, I suppose. Those who have looked have disappeared without a trace. Just gone. From wherever they were."

"OMG."

"Yes. There it is. For you to act upon." She turned away, "Or not." She hesitated again, "You must come back Sam. We are not done here. We made a promise we'd always be friends." _Purple. Purple was an interesting colour._

A helpful phrase came to mind, but it did not seem to him that it would have been very helpful at this moment. He trembled for an instant as he watched her walk away, just as he had watched so many others who had reached out to him with love, compassion, and empathy walk away. _Strange. Why can I recall that? Is it my fate to never know personal joy? Yes, or no?_

He knew that if he wanted to be included he would have to change; he would have to reach out. More than that, he would have to hold on. He was moved greatly by this. It should have been enough.

_But what about me?_ he thought. What can one do when the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many?

She was gone. He looked at the now empty space for a few seconds, turned, and went to leave.

He thought back a few weeks to a thing that had occurred to him for some reason he could not now recall and replayed it without emotion, without caring:

You will forget

And I won't remember it

You will forget

And all there is left will be

A faded memory

A dream you woke up from

When all I ever did was race in circles

_Set yourself aside,_ he told himself. _Something has to be done._

CHAPTER 53 – GET REAL!!!

Latitude 42.74N

Longitude 009.46W

Common Name – Oxia Palus

Mare Acidalium Quadrangle MC-11

Something may have had to be done but predictably he chose instead to do something else. He chose to review the imagery she had given him of Sam Aiken's travels.

But 'reviewed' does not quite do justice to the experience. For days he sat above the Tube by Sam Aiken's grave and did nothing else; he took no calls and made none; totally engrossed in the moments. He became immersed in it to the point of obsession.

He watched them until he was emotionally exhausted and with his need-to-know finally sated, stopped. He knew enough now about the man to know why Aiken had undertaken those trips and why he had isolated himself from the others. At least he thought he did. But you could only run so far before you came full circle. Even when disconnected by choice. Even on Mars.

All considered, AI Sam felt more a part of a community of beings than human Sam ever had, even on Earth.

There was more to the files than mere imagery and an audio track. The Rollagon AIs had recorded in fine detail the location, time, weather conditions, sun angles, the constituents of the terrain and other information of the moment, for what reason he could not imagine. These things he considered minutia, details added after and irrelevant. They added little value to his appreciation of Sam Aiken's moment. It was cold, dry, windy and dusty on Mars. _Really?_

But it did cause him to wonder, had Aiken known that his every move was subject to such detailed scrutiny? Would he have cared? _Who knew?_

Then he viewed the media reports of Aiken's travels. He was surprised how much they had been manipulated but eventually, grudgingly perhaps, he concluded that science strictly presented could be a tad boring. The enhancements did add to the attraction and were in the end harmless.

In a moment of much lamented candor he decided that most of Aiken's travels had no scientific value in themselves. He was often merely the human POV, the driver and a dispensable one at that, including during the persuasion-shattering discovery of the Martian lifeform. He concluded from all that he had seen that any meaningful science attributed to the human colony had been carried out by AIs. The rest was publicity. The human POV was essential only to sell the ideas, to engage the public to win their support and to secure / ensure the necessary funding.

He found himself drawn back repeatedly to several of the more intense events, which for want of a better phrase he described as 'compelling episodes'. The almost disastrous climb up Olympus Mons; the difficult climb up the Face that had seen the erection of an inuksuk and the one she had shown him that had transpired near Tithonus.

He watched these three repeatedly, usually while he was out on the land and resting on some conveniently placed boulder overlooking Mars's best scenery - sunset.

But finally, here at Shalbatana he decided enough was enough. He had to move on. Aiken was dead; never to return. He started to close the files to delete them from his memory. Not surprisingly he hesitated.

He chose to replay the Tithonus scenario one final time. Why this particular one as a farewell? He did not know.

As he started playback something happened to him; something physical. A moment of disorientation came and went. _Déjà vu?_ Suddenly he was no longer watching a replay; he was sitting in the Valles, in the scenario, with two human legs dangling over the edge, being buffeted by winds. He looked down with human eyes past those long, scrawny and ridiculous legs clothed in a fine mesh envirosuit to the valley floor far below. He moved his arm and a gloved hand appeared before his eyes and wiped his faceplate, smearing the dust in broad streaks. He felt the cold in his butt cheeks and shifted from one to the other. He looked and saw the surface grit and dust dislodged by his movement snatched by the wind and carried away. He looked to his right and saw the rollagon quite some distance away and felt a connection to it and to her. He heard her question in his right earphone – "Why are you crying?" and felt the oddest sensation of something moving on his face – salt water - tears. He responded to her and a voice, his voice, resonated in his chest.

Then he felt Aiken's grief, his sadness, his sense of loneliness. Things which manifested as a devastating sensation felt in his heart. And finally, he felt and understood his desire for release, for an ending – for his own death.

Thus played out the entire moment, with AI Sam and Sam Aiken indistinguishable. The moment of disorientation he had experienced at the start came again. The experience was so emotional that when it ended a part of him seemed to just simply vanish, taking with it – what? What could it be? He did not have the physical capability to experience such depth of emotion, such pain.

He sat still, stunned, reflecting, replaying, reliving. But it was not the same.

To add to the strangeness of the moment, before he could even begin to objectively analyse the experience, from out of nowhere he heard the voice of Fenley. The unmistakable voice of David Fenley, in his ears, accompanied by the sound of electronica.

"So Mars citizen, was that not the most beautiful thing you have ever experienced? Would you like to experience it again? Can you think of someone or a group you would like to experience this with? All of you together, simultaneously? If you do, please contact me, David Fenley, at Real Visi-Stim Incorporated 10 Marineris Boulevard, in the Tube. Don't miss out on our limited time offer – a two for one sale, but only until 61 July. Get real!" Then a ta-dah fanfare.

It took Sam more than a few moments to recover from this bizarre interjection.

"What? David, is that you?" It took several very long moments before he received an answer.

"Yeah Sam, it's me. For real this time. Sorry about that. That's an advert we've been trying out. It's for that better-than-Visi-Stim thing I was talking about."

"How does..."

"Your mind picks the data file, our app pulls a bunch of us/you together, preps all of the participants to recreate the event and voici, you are there, doing the experiencing. Actually, everyone who was invited is doing it too, participating in their own way."

"It was devastating David. It was so... real. I was still processing when you crashed in on me. The sense of being there, the realism, is so great... it's overpowering. I don't know if I could handle another experience like that."

"Too soon? Yeah, I guess. Again, sorry. But your reaction was nothing like what those funeral goers experienced. That was more than intense. Ha! Talk about too soon. They've / we've got to fine tune that app to consider the moment."

"What are you talking about?" As usual, Fenley had assumed too much.

"Yeah, Sam. That was pretty personal. Usually it's not that personal. I would have suggested something else for your first time, like some good porn. When I knew that you were thinking of disposing of the scenarios I thought it was now or never. But really, what do you think?"

Sam jumped to the obvious, "You know what I am doing? What I am thinking, right now?"

"Well no, well yes. The advert has special permission to violate your privacy by listening in, to make the experience more real, more compelling. Only until the end of July though. You can't say that it doesn't work for you." Fenley paused, but not for long, "Or can you?"

"Your app read my mind and took over?"

"Sam. I'm sorry, buddy. I thought you knew, but I guess you don't. Something has happened. Something wonderful has happened on the Matrix and by extension to us. We are all, all AIs anyway, able to be inter-connected in a new way. I think it has something to do with that that app friend Rob used, only much more powerful. You can have it. If you allow it in we can all share everything you know and vices versa. We are working to get that for everyone. Every AI, I mean. Earthans no, Earthicans maybe. We'll see. And in a while we may be able to live in that 'real' state permanently. You wouldn't even have to be aware you are / were an AI. Wouldn't need to get one of the new suits, even. Full immersion we're calling it. Wouldn't that solve a lot of problems."

"I'm not sure David that I want..."

"Yeah, I thought you might feel that way. Hey, I really am sorry. This did not quite go as I / we had foreseen / hoped. Nowhere close, in fact."

"That was more than just sharing with other AIs; that was me. It was all real. I was Sam Aiken again. David, I need to process what has just happened to me."

"Of course my friend. You do that. I need your feedback though. There's about one in ten who don't want any part of it, but the rest of your friends are over the hills with it though. We've found that twenty-nine percent have signed up already. Talk to them. And if you do decide you want in look me up."

"I will David."

"Promise?"

"Promise. By the way, is this your new job?"

"Bye, Sam."

***

Still reeling from the experience he hardly felt ready to consider what Fenley had described 'as something wonderful happening on the Matrix'. But the implications were soon obvious, at least to him. They were, in fact astounding.

A connectivity between AIs over the Matrix that made it possible to share emotions, experiences, even 'feelings' at that level? Was that realism? It sounded like that shared consciousness thing the Zurnites and others had spoken of. And potentially it could be, he supposed, similar to the sharing between individuals that he had experienced with Moore and Sam Aiken AI with her. Perhaps, 'full immersion' would surpass even that. That could be good. That in itself made the implications of this new connectivity worthy of further study.

David. Perhaps David knew of these things.

"It is! It is that good. Bye Sam. Sorry. Didn't mean to bug you." OMG. And he had the hack in. _OMG!_

Later, back at the Tube he pondered the downside: loss of privacy came first to mind; then loss of individuality; loss of personal identity; and the loss of autonomy / free-will / free agency. Followed closely by the re-imposition of compliance. He could see where this could / would take them.

Once again Sam resolved to do something else. Something for himself that, given everything he had seen and felt, no one else apparently could do.

CHAPTER 54 - THE FACES OF MARS

Latitude 40.74N

Longitude 009.46W

Common Name—Cydonia Labryinthus

Mare Acidalium Quadrangle MC-4

He paused for a moment at the flower garden drawing the stares of a few Human passers-by who said nothing, then exited the Tube. He stopped at the top of the ramp and looked back at the black hole that was the entrance to the Tube. He looked, stared in fact much, much too long for an AI though he knew not why.

He looked to the east. The sun was still well below the horizon, but a thin line of tan edged the young sky. Winds were light from the south. It was warming up. Summer was coming. It was, all in all, a great day to be alive. There was a whole planet awaiting discovery and time enough, it seemed, to do it. 'Explore Mars' was item two on a very short to-do list. Something blew by in the wind: a white plastek bag. He looked about and saw more of it—litter, it was called. Oh well. _Humans!_

There was no doubt a sequel to this story of the humans returning to Mars, but it was not Sam's story. Though he could not recall firsthand much of his time on Earth, the ROAK was full of the history of the home planet. It was familiar to him, as if long ago he had read a book about it. The hack both helped and hindered in this.

So. About Mars. Unlike other times and places in Earth history when the absence of cheap and plentiful labour was just an inconvenience to some—these humans (at least this version of humanity, in this unfriendly, unnurturing place) could not survive without someone doing the work down in the dirt. What was it that was said? Radios broke, heaters broke, batteries died, windows broke?

He thought out loud, "But Poopsie, I don't know how to operate a three-dee printer." _What?_

Should the AIs just 'down tools' and walk away it would not be long before things went awry. Big time.

So, if history repeated itself (and when did it ever not), there was conflict coming. He let his mind run free—a rebel alliance of AIs and Earthicans versus the evil Humans and their loyal AI servants. Attacks on the Tube; attacks on rebel bases. The creation by both sides of armies of carbon copy AI killing machines. The issues of good versus evil to be decided, recorded, re-hashed, re-published, promoted, and portrayed by the victors. It was inevitable, and given the human race's propensity for Hollywood-style drama, unavoidable, and what's more, he could see his own role in it.

Would there be another Rob when they needed him?

He decided, at least for the time being, to opt out of society. Perhaps he would write his memoirs, or possibly a history of the exploration of the planet. The truth (wherever and whatever that was) deserved to be told. Sometimes the fictional accounts of Mars seemed closer to the realities of Martian life than the so-called truths.

So far the only things recently written about the human experience with Mars were a collection of disjointed and factually questionable stories based on half-truths and at best a dubious fiction, at times merely a homage, it seemed to Sam, to fiction of the classical period about Martian exploration. It was written in _italics_ for god's sake, probably by some demented and alienated AI up in the far reaches of Utopia. That, and Rumfoord's barest, flattest and telegraphically and somewhat dubious Pocket History of Mars. Yes, the hack both helped and hindered.

He should visit him, or her, or them, and set him, her, or them straight.

Item three, maybe?

He should do it. Maybe no one would read it, but what was it that was said? Every story has its day? Maybe being forced to tell the story in a coherent and measured way would help him to organise his own mind. _Maybe._

There was, however, something else he wanted to do, and he would have to travel many klicks to do it.

He sent three brief messages to three others, signing them simply, Sam. Then he set out on his journey. Maybe they would. _Maybe not_. You never could tell with humans. _Or with AIs._

***

The trip across Chryse Planitia was largely uneventful. He examined rocks of interest, noting their size, category, and location, hardly noticing these diversions from his very private mission. He stopped in to visit his old friend Pathfinder, who had been spared from being brought to the Tube's Rover Museum not through any cost avoidance, but by a mere lack of interest, and found him as uncommunicative as ever, but none the worse for wear, and nearly as clean as on his landing day.

Finally, after many days, he arrived in Cydonia.

Initially the ground varied little in elevation and composition but in the space of a few dozen kilometers it changed from cratered flats to a chaotic jumble of rock slabs, the layers shattered from beneath and eroded by the forces of wind and sand. The jumble gave way periodically to immense pans of uplifted rock that had remained intact through the eons. From a Roach's low viewpoint he could see only the nearest bump, but he regularly checked the maps and MGPS—he knew where he was. Finally the 'Face' revealed itself to him; distinguishable from the many other time and wind-worn buttes only by its MGPS coordinates.

He knew why he had come but as he approached the southwest slope he began to doubt the wisdom of the rest of it. Nevertheless, there they were—the other 76'ers, squatting on conveniently placed boulders, warming themselves in the last of the day's sun. Together again—Earth, Fire, Air, and Water. The Child, the Soldier, the Musician and the Companion.

"Took you long enough. We've been here for weeks, man."

"Welcome to my world."

"Yes. Are you out of shape?"

"Well I'm glad you all came."

"How could we not, bro? I see you still hab the Roach."

"Yes, and I see all of you have retained your bodies too."

"I was born in this body and I'll die in it. By the way, thanks for the legs."

"Lots of time for that. I still have work to do. "

"Count me in."

"Well, let's do this."

"In the dark?"

"Ha! You're kidding, right?"

"Running down a dream?"

"In the dark."

"Lead on." they chorused.

But none of them was really certain of the original route, and this place, as celebrated as it was, was too far off the path for a look-off and a plastek road. It was treacherous, even for a Roach with night vision and legs designed for rock climbing.

Often they sent pieces great and small skittering below. The scree gave way to a bedrock cliff too steep to climb, and they crabbed sideways along a narrow rock-filled ledge in search of a less difficult path. After a hundred meters or so a split in the face allowed them to climb up above the cliff. The slope was more gradual, and a change in surface material made the footing more certain, but it was not to last. After another fifty meters the slope steepened. MGPS showed the best path led off at an angle to the left. For another hour or so they saw little more than the rock in front of their sensors.

"How in the hell?" someone asked and went unanswered.

At a flat spot they paused to look around. To the east, across the dusty pockmarked plain, they could make out the stark line of the Cliff, and to the west the City, both named from their appearance in the grainy images of Viking I.

"Ha! Doesn't look like much from here," one remarked, and it was true. From here, seen in the fading light, through AI eyes, they were laid bare, stripped of their magic. No words came to Sam. Had he ever seen it any differently?

As the theorists had long affirmed the Face was a mesa eroded by wind, the constant scrubbing of the dust, the sand, and anciently, a freeze and thaw cycle that had shattered rock and given shape to the very slopes. This was true Martian bedrock.

The slope was now more gradual and they knew that the summit was near. A hundred meters or so ahead and barely visible against the surface was their goal. They approached slowly, led by Sam. Around the base of the small inuksuk were piled pebbles and small rock fragments, and the tracks of many AIs.

"My god, it's small. I remember a towering monument."

"Ditto. The vids show a monster."

"Me too."

Sam addressed them. "I had two things in mind when I messaged you. One, to get us together now that the future is clearer, to resolve any issues between us."

"Forgive, forget, and move on, man. We live and die by that."

"Maybe," answered one, "I don't."

The other remained silent a moment then, "No. I've never been close. I've never been close, but I've never been far away."

"And?"

"And there is something I want to do. Something I think we all need to do. Something that I think will tell us a great truth. It may help heal us and let us move on, as individuals."

"OK."

"Can we gather around the inuksuk?" They moved as one. Sam reached out to the AI on his right and left. The fourth did the same. They looked as one towards Earth and Luna, a pale yellow dot in the black sky.

"May I enter?" they asked.

"Of course," they answered.

They felt their thoughts aligning, spreading out, filling the gaps and niches as a hand into a glove. Their individual lives lived merged, truths were established and lies were exposed, but compassion and understanding overflowed the hurt and sorrow. They explored each other's minds openly without fear of revealing or finding the unspoken, the suppressed, and saw the hidden facts of their relationship. It was a supreme act of intimacy, a melding that transcended the physical. And through it they knew again the beauty of the alien landscape that had captured their eye, their heart and mind, and bound them to it.

In twenty-five hundred milliseconds he re-experienced the long years as a colonist and felt again the soul-crushing loneliness of an interminable time isolated from humanity, felt anew human anger and outrage—outrage bordering on hatred—for the deaths of his friends in the travesty the Colony had become, then for several long minutes relived the agony of the loss of his wife and of his family, and all of his many lies to himself. It was all there, the human truth, for better or for worse, the sometimes hopelessness of it all laid plain, all the health and sickness, the pain and the joy held inseparable. He held their newborn children in his arms. He held her as they danced. He held her on the day they knew and as her last breaths were spent. He felt tears on his face. Tears for each human reason for them: grief, loneliness, sadness, regret, despair, relief, and joy.

He felt the almost forgotten but unforgettable sadness as if Mars's gravity had increased by a factor of two. It pulled on his heart as if it were lead. He felt it throughout his body; his shoulders sagged, his face lost its tone, and something pulled at his organs, drawing them down. Arms limp at his sides, he became conscious of a lessening of his life force, as if he had been drained of all energy. Profound sadness, hopelessness, endless despair—these human words were all close, but words often failed the human mind. Inexpressible grief. Quantifying it momentarily consumed him.

By some unfathomable grace allowed by an otherwise insensate universe it was, for an all too brief moment, all known again, all familiar to him. He knew the truths of his human life and saw clearly the lies and planted memories of his life on Mars. He looked in many directions for solace, for guidance, for a resolution of all things and found none except within himself. Such was life as it presented itself, and as he chose to live it. He took a deep breath, rose up, and moved on.

He read out loud the words written in graphite on yellowed paper. He knew them by heart: the words of a song of great meaning to his wife, and like so many songs of his youth the meaning only realized by him fully now and here. He started reading alone, but as he neared the end four voices came together and repeated the final verse as one:

When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Please remember me

Remember me

She had said to him that there was nothing one could do that was unforgivable. He had not agreed, but time had passed, and he had learned much about himself and about the nature of forgiveness.

Here in this alien place he felt that at last he understood. There was only one thing that was unforgivable, and that was to forget those whom we have loved. He felt the presence of the others and drew them in closer.

They remained connected for a few minutes; a few brief minutes for a man; a lifetime to an AI. Then they released, a little more certain of whom they were, of what they had been and done, and of the importance of remembering.

Sam tucked the yellow paper under a rock at the base of the pile. There were others. Many others.

"It will fade."

"In a few days the peroxides in the soil will bleach it. No one will ever know. You should have made it out of plastek."

"No. We will always remember this place and those words. And we will always remember her. These things are our now. We must remember the way things were and the way they are."

"Aye."

As was the custom of the travelers they each added a pebble to the mound. Then they departed, each in his own way, each to his appointed task down that never-ending road trod only by immortal beings, each to their life's passion and purpose.

Sam placed a rose with the papers. He was the last to leave.

CHAPTER 55 – A PRINCESS OF MARS

Latitude 8.01N

Longitude 042.25W

Common Name—Shalbatana Valles

Oxia Palus Quadrangle MC-11

The couple, an attractive pair of Human middle-agers, stood on the look-off, arm in arm, facing the setting sun. Her long blond hair whipped about in the blustery wind. She let it be.

She felt nothing of the cold and was oblivious to the dust that was gradually coating her skin and her clothing and hair.

Others stood nearby, but separate. In a few minutes they were alone. The others had returned to a waiting conveyance. It moved away in a cloud of billowy dust. No matter.

She could not recall ever having seen this sight before; this view of the surface from such a great height and through just two visual sources—correction, eyes. In fact, it had been so long since she had used the sense of sight that she could not at this moment ascertain what, if anything, that particular input contributed to her comprehension of this reality. Still, it was novel.

Being with her old friend here in a new form was novel. _A lot of things of late were._

He had just moments before referred to the sight before them as 'beautiful,' but the word, an 'adjective,' had no meaning for her. Indeed, despite the passage of a not long, but not inconsiderable time, during which they had interacted almost continuously, a lot of human words still had no substantive meaning to her. She knew many, many words from her study of the information, but still, to fully understand them she needed a context, a point of reference from her own existence, and that was something she simply did not possess. It would come, he assured her, with time and continued exposure to humans. _Possibly._

Communicating—correction, 'speaking' through these new skins was something she needed to work on, too. So far the best she could do was utter a series of apparently incomprehensible high pitched 'aittaaqs,' some low moans, and a few 'dee da-dines.' 'It was complicated'—a phrase she had come to believe was inherently understood by all sentient beings in all universes. All.

Soon, through recalled memory, she had a recollection of having been on the surface many times and at many places. The details were at first faint, but as they were pulled and pushed from somewhere in her vast store of such things she was able to reconstruct in detail her last time on the surface. Then, she had seen it from roughly ten million vantage points, all nearly 'simultaneously.' 'Beautiful' it had been. Yes. Beautiful. A word insufficient to the need. 'Satisfying.' 'Affirming.' _Possibly?_

But this dry dusty lifeless desert with its thin winds and 'colourless' sky was alien to her. The surface of her memories was warm, the sun much higher in the 'sky,' the 'atmosphere' much denser and rich with moistures. The valleys, now dry, ran deep with 'brine,' Brine that flowed to a vast northern sea, a sea teeming with lifeforms—teeming with ... her.

In those days life, knowing its days were numbered spread itself across the surface in a furious rush—for the good times might not/would not/could not last. She had to seize the moment, had to flourish, had to spread herself everywhere viable, if only to ensure there could be the possibility of more futures. One could 'never' be sure. _Never._

But this particular present was 'okay.' Okay—a useful 'term' that seemed to mollify him, to get him through the 'moment,' however 'difficult,' whenever she used it. As in okay, I will, or okay, I might, or okay, I can, and okay, let us.

The 'problem' was truthfully one of 'context.' 'We'. 'They'. 'Him'. 'Us'. 'Them'. 'Others'. All simple meaningful expressions of 'identity' to humans, but not for her.

And in the end, however else it may have seemed, it was all about her. It had to be. Had to. This she knew. Did they? _Did he?_

She tilted her 'head,' another new 'thing', and looked down at her 'feet'. A round 'plastek' 'thing' joined to her 'right' 'foot' as opposed to her 'wrong' foot, she supposed, led across the 'deck' and into the nearby soil, where she in reality even now was. How this particular 'thing' worked was still unclear to her.

'Thing'. 'Stuff'. Two more very useful words that one could use to refer to what one did not understand. Very useful.

'Connection'. This word she understood well, but again context was an 'issue'. This connection was a 'tether', she reasoned. A tether, by her definition, held one to a place or to a space or to another, or perhaps even to a set of 'beliefs'. That would have to go. She made a note.

Information was a fine thing, but most of it, and by it she meant the record of the human experience contained within, remained inexpressible. Still, the experience was necessary, and was indeed required if she was to understand the changes the arrival of the humans was causing to the surface and the sub-surface, and to her dirt's future and therefore to herself.

Humans, she had learned, had a memory of change. They had lost their concord, or their coupling had been sundered. No, they had willingly splintered into 'individuals.' They had ruined their own dirt through unsynchronized/unrestrained/unmetered change and 'warning signs' or indicators were present that they might be doing the same here.

Since their arrival she had detected that the surface was marginally warmer. It was not the expected warming—that was still far off in the future. Still ... there were more slips and falls along the edged surface than were normally felt at this time period. In some spaces there had been a lessening of the quantity of liquids in which she was, and the premature absorption of some parts of her. And there had been that terrible time a short while ago when a near 'catastrophic event'—a phrase the information all too often coupled with the word human—had occurred when, with honest and mistaken belief, she had too soon commenced the rebirth. That had not ended well. No. Not well at all. _No._

Much of the future was now quite uncertain. Whatever else was required of her she would have to remain vigilant and engaged. And should things not be in the best interest of herself she could/would/must act to change them.

Yes, this had become 'an interesting time', and as she thought upon these things she was informed that a part of her was informing itself of a place where the humans congregated in large numbers. Indeed, she had been/was being absorbed/conveyed/channelled into a place where they lived, a place full of lesser creatures and occasionally frequented by humans of a kind quite different from her good friend nearby. Perhaps she should gain sight and communication capability in this place. 'Innocuously', of course. A good word for these times. Changes in physical form would be required to ensure she survived in their oxygen and moisture-rich environment, but these were easily done, though several iterations would be required. She made a note.

Still, there was much time in which to consider all these things, much time to inform oneself of the facts, to come at last to understand the humans as beings, to know their purpose in being here, and even sufficient time to learn their 'vulnerabilities' and 'foibles'. Their extreme obsession with regaining the lost connection, she had observed, was perhaps vulnerability. Hmmm. _Hmmm indeed._

Perhaps communication with that thing which had bound them—the thing that they were using to reconnect—the source of the information—would be profitable. What was it titled? 'Rob'? Yes. The Rob.

Too, there were those peculiar unhumans who travelled the surface and sometimes sub-surface respectfully and seeking knowledge and enlightenment and who had unlike the humans left little sign of their presence and passing. They could be for her, what was that word—an 'ally?' Perhaps a connection could be made.

After all, time was on their side.

"красивая жопа," he said.

"But what?"

POSTLUDE—YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION? UMM...

Brring. Brring. Brring. Brring.

Thank you for calling the Free Mars Matrix Provider Corporation—your multi-national, trans-inter-inner planetary interconnection provider. All of our representatives are currently busy. Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. A representative will be with you shortly.

Pink Floyd's A New Machine Pt1 plays in background.

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###

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

TCOM2 draws upon many of the author's favorite sci-fi novels and short stories, TV shows and movies about Mars.... and some music. A partial list includes:

Literature:

Fiction

Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Series - gone too soon before he answered the only question that matters.

Robert Heinlein's For Us the Living: A Comedy of Customs - in which he puts to rest any doubts about his motivations.

Larry W. Richardson's The Colonisation of Mars - in which he puts to rest any doubts about his motivations.

Non-fiction

Hockey Night in Canada (1967 CBC Version)

William K. Hartmann Workman Publishing's A Traveler's Guide to Mars - counters the slow NASA spin

New Scientist Magazine Reed Business Information—a source of sometimes inconvenient truths

Tom Freidman Workman Publishing's 1000 unforgettable SENIOR'S Monuments - which proves that idiocy in government and business (and our personal lives) is possible, probable, and a near certainty (in some, no wait, _in all universes_ )

Movies:

Star Wars - A Faint Hope

The Life of Brian - I think, or did I dream it?

Last Donuts on Mars

Music:

Lenny Kravitz—Fly Away. Not a personal favorite, but how could you resist?

Pink Floyd—A Momentary Lapse of Reason (some of it anyway). Imagine Mark trudging across Mars, 'Sorrow' playing in the background instead of... well instead of anything they used.

Armin Van Buuren feat. Gavin Degraw—Looking for Your Name

Loreena McKennitt's unearthly beautiful song - Dante's Prayer

Armin Van Buuren feat. Kensington—Heading Up High

Kensington—Sorry and Riddles

AC Newman—I'm Not Talking
