other than to eradicate the zombies before the zombies eradicated them. He seemed, finally, to understand the threat the zombies posed but not the breadth or depth of it. He also didn’t like the fact that the Guardians had no intention of contacting his governmental authorities.
He liked it less when she explained that the zombies were under the jurisdiction of the Guardians. Zombies were—and she admitted shame to that fact—a mech-organic entity produced by her own government to monitor commercial space traffic for contaminates, and to defend and repair the Hatches: portals that utilized the space–time curvature to link the spacelanes. They were designed to operate in small herds, all under the control of the largest zombie, designated the C-Prime.
Commands issued by her people to the C-Prime were then transmitted to the herd for action. If a herd member was destroyed, the C-Prime could replicate another. If a herd member malfunctioned, the C-Prime could repair it or terminate it.
Then something went radically wrong. The C-Primes stopped accepting commands from the Guardians and began making decisions on their own. It was a flaw, the result of a program upgrade intended to make the C-Primes more intuitive, more responsive. It ended up making them into monsters.
Her government, Jorie patiently explained, had created this problem two hundred years ago. They would fix it, even if it took them another two hundred years.
“We made a mistake,” she said.
“That’s one goddamned big mistake!” He leaned back in his chair, away from her, as he did every time he responded in anger.
“Agreed. Our mistake. Our solution.”
“But it’s killing my people!”
“Mine too.”
“You can fight back. We can’t.”
She knew where he was going with this. Back to his “I have to warn my government” diatribe. But getting nil-techs involved not only wasted time, it cost lives. The Guardians had learned that two hundred years ago as well.
“Our solution,” she repeated. “No choice.”
He turned away from her, his hand fisted over his mouth as if he were trying to stop his words from escaping.
Through all this, Tam Herryck bustled in and out, bringing more data from Danjay’s T-MOD, once again shielded and cooperating nicely. But Jorie didn’t need more data. She needed a chunk of quiet time in order to compose a transmit to Galin about his friend’s untimely but heroic death. Then she needed food and she needed sleep, and not necessarily in that order. She also needed a cleanser. Every time she wiped her hand over her face, it came back with more dirt on it. Petrakos looked rumpled and tired too, though probably not half as filthy as she did. He hadn’t been crawling through the foliage then lying facedown in the dirt for the better part of several time-sweeps.
He wasn’t dealing with the loss of an agent and a friend.
She sighed, rested her elbows on the tabletop and her forehead against her hands for a moment.
“You’re tired.” His voice softened.
She peeked up at him from over her hands. “Observant.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. I’m tired too. But people—
my
people—are dying. Being killed by
your
zombies. It’s my job to…It doesn’t seem right to go take a nap.”
It took a moment for her to put his sentence together. She straightened. “Zombies nap.”
“You mean they’ve stopped killing?”
“Temporarily. Their impetus,” she wasn’t sure he understood the word, but he nodded, and she continued, “their impetus was heightened by the frequencies of the unshielded T-MOD. We removed that unit to here. This ship.” She tapped the table with her finger. “We have time before they start again. I know—
we
know—how. We know when. We study the data, the craving. Movement of the herd.” She was losing him. She could tell by the slanting of dark brows over even darker eyes. “We have time for cleanser,” she scrubbed at her face,
He liked it less when she explained that the zombies were under the jurisdiction of the Guardians. Zombies were—and she admitted shame to that fact—a mech-organic entity produced by her own government to monitor commercial space traffic for contaminates, and to defend and repair the Hatches: portals that utilized the space–time curvature to link the spacelanes. They were designed to operate in small herds, all under the control of the largest zombie, designated the C-Prime.
Commands issued by her people to the C-Prime were then transmitted to the herd for action. If a herd member was destroyed, the C-Prime could replicate another. If a herd member malfunctioned, the C-Prime could repair it or terminate it.
Then something went radically wrong. The C-Primes stopped accepting commands from the Guardians and began making decisions on their own. It was a flaw, the result of a program upgrade intended to make the C-Primes more intuitive, more responsive. It ended up making them into monsters.
Her government, Jorie patiently explained, had created this problem two hundred years ago. They would fix it, even if it took them another two hundred years.
“We made a mistake,” she said.
“That’s one goddamned big mistake!” He leaned back in his chair, away from her, as he did every time he responded in anger.
“Agreed. Our mistake. Our solution.”
“But it’s killing my people!”
“Mine too.”
“You can fight back. We can’t.”
She knew where he was going with this. Back to his “I have to warn my government” diatribe. But getting nil-techs involved not only wasted time, it cost lives. The Guardians had learned that two hundred years ago as well.
“Our solution,” she repeated. “No choice.”
He turned away from her, his hand fisted over his mouth as if he were trying to stop his words from escaping.
Through all this, Tam Herryck bustled in and out, bringing more data from Danjay’s T-MOD, once again shielded and cooperating nicely. But Jorie didn’t need more data. She needed a chunk of quiet time in order to compose a transmit to Galin about his friend’s untimely but heroic death. Then she needed food and she needed sleep, and not necessarily in that order. She also needed a cleanser. Every time she wiped her hand over her face, it came back with more dirt on it. Petrakos looked rumpled and tired too, though probably not half as filthy as she did. He hadn’t been crawling through the foliage then lying facedown in the dirt for the better part of several time-sweeps.
He wasn’t dealing with the loss of an agent and a friend.
She sighed, rested her elbows on the tabletop and her forehead against her hands for a moment.
“You’re tired.” His voice softened.
She peeked up at him from over her hands. “Observant.”
“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“Hmm?”
“Nothing. I’m tired too. But people—
my
people—are dying. Being killed by
your
zombies. It’s my job to…It doesn’t seem right to go take a nap.”
It took a moment for her to put his sentence together. She straightened. “Zombies nap.”
“You mean they’ve stopped killing?”
“Temporarily. Their impetus,” she wasn’t sure he understood the word, but he nodded, and she continued, “their impetus was heightened by the frequencies of the unshielded T-MOD. We removed that unit to here. This ship.” She tapped the table with her finger. “We have time before they start again. I know—
we
know—how. We know when. We study the data, the craving. Movement of the herd.” She was losing him. She could tell by the slanting of dark brows over even darker eyes. “We have time for cleanser,” she scrubbed at her face,
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