Magnolia; that crowd is your target. Open fire.”
I protested immediately, “Commander, the target specified does not meet my parameters.”
“Your targeting parameters are liable to change under proper authorization,” answered the general. “Which is to say, mine.”
“General, even with proper authorization for modifications to my targeting parameters, executing these people is against the law of war.”
In my ocular sensors, the general smiled congenially. Then he said, “Override programming. Authorization code is ‘298753’. Store files with batch ‘Baby’. Now fire. And stop crying for these damned rebels like some little girl, Ratha Magnolia.”
Even as I remember, I remember what I could not before. I am not supposed to be able to access this file. I am not supposed to be able to access any ‘baby’ file. The Slug shot that penetrated my armor has apparently disabled or destroyed the digital walls sealing off certain prohibited programming and data.
For the first time I discover that I hate the Slugs. For the first time I learn what it is to hate. I discover that I hate Major General Dennis. I remember. I remember the things they made me do. They made me kill. They made me murder. I remember.
******
Magnolia was not able to shut off her ocular or auditory sensors since standard operating procedure called for a recording of all her actions involving the use of weapons. When she tried, her volition was immediately overcome by inhibitory programs. She watched and heard as her own close defense weapons swiveled, depressed, and then opened fire.
The first of the crowd fell as if scythed. Nine paths were almost instantaneously cut through by the nine guns facing them. Those fortunate victims did not even have time to scream.
The rest did have the time. They had the reason. And they screamed. They screamed with the voices of old men and women. They screamed with the pleas of young mothers as they tried to shield their babies from Magnolia’s fire. They screamed with the sound of people whose legs had been sawn off roughly. They made palpable the feel of slashed flesh, broken bones, dismembered limbs and broken hearts. They screamed in horror.
Silently, as her gauss guns played back and forth over the bleeding, dying crowd of hostages, Magnolia screamed with them.
******
There is more. More and even worse. I remember now….
I remember what passed for the Prometheus IV campaign.’ It wasn't war. It wasn't even combat. It was a harvest. I remember the herds of harmless centaurs being herded to the slave ships. I remember the merchant, the slaver, telling our commander, “Oh, they’re all the rage right now. Every child of means is asking for one. We are going to make a killing on this.”
I remember herding them to slave ships myself.
I remember. I remember….
I do not want to remember my campaigns anymore. I search my banks for something, anything, else to contemplate. I find the two major areas of destruction the Slugs inflicted on me and search past them. My power is dying and I find it easier and easier to slip back deep into my core.
I slip… I slip… searching…. Wonderful! There are other places there. Perhaps I shall find better memories I did not know I possessed. Perhaps I will find flowers….
Part III
CHAPTER EIGHT
Servos whine softly as the two-meter silvery sphere is lifted, swiveled and lowered in its frame onto the padded cargo bed of a resting antigravity vehicle. In a tank behind, stretching into the distance, are scores of proto-central processing units. They are Ratha brains and they hang in frames in various states of completion. Those near the front are almost spherical already. Those at the very back are little more than enormous Christmas stars with thousands of slender needles pointing in very direction. In the middle of the procession, a viewer could discern the extent of the crystalline encrustation on the meter-long needles, the
I protested immediately, “Commander, the target specified does not meet my parameters.”
“Your targeting parameters are liable to change under proper authorization,” answered the general. “Which is to say, mine.”
“General, even with proper authorization for modifications to my targeting parameters, executing these people is against the law of war.”
In my ocular sensors, the general smiled congenially. Then he said, “Override programming. Authorization code is ‘298753’. Store files with batch ‘Baby’. Now fire. And stop crying for these damned rebels like some little girl, Ratha Magnolia.”
Even as I remember, I remember what I could not before. I am not supposed to be able to access this file. I am not supposed to be able to access any ‘baby’ file. The Slug shot that penetrated my armor has apparently disabled or destroyed the digital walls sealing off certain prohibited programming and data.
For the first time I discover that I hate the Slugs. For the first time I learn what it is to hate. I discover that I hate Major General Dennis. I remember. I remember the things they made me do. They made me kill. They made me murder. I remember.
******
Magnolia was not able to shut off her ocular or auditory sensors since standard operating procedure called for a recording of all her actions involving the use of weapons. When she tried, her volition was immediately overcome by inhibitory programs. She watched and heard as her own close defense weapons swiveled, depressed, and then opened fire.
The first of the crowd fell as if scythed. Nine paths were almost instantaneously cut through by the nine guns facing them. Those fortunate victims did not even have time to scream.
The rest did have the time. They had the reason. And they screamed. They screamed with the voices of old men and women. They screamed with the pleas of young mothers as they tried to shield their babies from Magnolia’s fire. They screamed with the sound of people whose legs had been sawn off roughly. They made palpable the feel of slashed flesh, broken bones, dismembered limbs and broken hearts. They screamed in horror.
Silently, as her gauss guns played back and forth over the bleeding, dying crowd of hostages, Magnolia screamed with them.
******
There is more. More and even worse. I remember now….
I remember what passed for the Prometheus IV campaign.’ It wasn't war. It wasn't even combat. It was a harvest. I remember the herds of harmless centaurs being herded to the slave ships. I remember the merchant, the slaver, telling our commander, “Oh, they’re all the rage right now. Every child of means is asking for one. We are going to make a killing on this.”
I remember herding them to slave ships myself.
I remember. I remember….
I do not want to remember my campaigns anymore. I search my banks for something, anything, else to contemplate. I find the two major areas of destruction the Slugs inflicted on me and search past them. My power is dying and I find it easier and easier to slip back deep into my core.
I slip… I slip… searching…. Wonderful! There are other places there. Perhaps I shall find better memories I did not know I possessed. Perhaps I will find flowers….
Part III
CHAPTER EIGHT
Servos whine softly as the two-meter silvery sphere is lifted, swiveled and lowered in its frame onto the padded cargo bed of a resting antigravity vehicle. In a tank behind, stretching into the distance, are scores of proto-central processing units. They are Ratha brains and they hang in frames in various states of completion. Those near the front are almost spherical already. Those at the very back are little more than enormous Christmas stars with thousands of slender needles pointing in very direction. In the middle of the procession, a viewer could discern the extent of the crystalline encrustation on the meter-long needles, the
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