Oslo Citadel Complex, Sweden, Zone Berlin. She’d been stupid, stupid to be caught like that. She’d delivered Shamanov. Almost made it back, all the way across Zones Paris and Berlin. Almost finished it. And then she’d met the priest, a missionary from the Irish Vatican. Father William. He had seemed so real. She’d talked about Michael, her hopes and fears, whether to marry, have the baby they wanted, was it was wrong to bring a child into this broken world. All the stupid things you’d tell a priest. He’d listened patiently. Spoken of his faith, absolute devotion to a higher power. Not really a lie. He just hadn’t meant God. He’d led her into a trap. She’d let Colonel Dahlgren down. She’d never see Michael again. Her mission was blown. No way to get the information back to her unit. She could only hope the machines didn’t find out what she’d been doing. At least she’d had the new Tyraline vaccine. The machines’ truth serum wouldn’t work on her. They’d have to break her the old fashioned way. She could play dumb. Maybe they’d just kill her. So many comrades dead. Maybe it was her turn. Eve wanted to cry. She had to be strong. Michael said they lived for tomorrow. For the tiny victories, that built up over time. Until we smash them.
She was locked in a bare metal room, two meters by three. She was thirsty. She was also hungry, but that wasn’t new. Eve had been hungry all her life. A door that wouldn’t open, a metal grate her only toilet. She heard things. Noises. Footsteps that did not sound human. Faint screams that did. After what might have been five minutes, or five hours, the metal door hissed open. It was the ragged young priest she’d foolishly stopped to help. The priest who wasn’t a priest. Nor a man. Father William. Machine. RAU-05 Redjack. The infiltrator. “Top of the morning to you, Eve,” said the infiltrator, his Irish brogue comically strong. “Don’t fight me, kiddo, and you’ll be fine.” “You don’t have to pretend,” Eve said bitterly. “I know what you are.” Lie. If they don’t know I’m a courier . . . “Don’t hurt me! You want me to help you find more people?”
The infiltrator didn’t speak. But it had stopped smiling. Its biomorphic face suddenly gone blank. Like it realized it didn’t have to try any more. It stood aside. From behind it crawled something else . . . A giant metal spider, rearing up on multiple legs. Armored. Deadly. Tarantula. Eve couldn’t help herself. She backed away, flattening against the cell wall. She’d never met an XAU-08, but knew about them from briefings and frightened tales of survivors. They were anti-guerilla specialists, hunter-killers. “Protosapient bioform,” the Tarantula’s voice grated out. “You have been identified as a component of a wild human organization known to infest this sector.” The thing’s voice was nothing like a human’s. Higher pitched. Metallic. Perhaps it had not talked to many humans before. Had not bothered to fool them. Just killed them. Eve hugged herself and shivered. “You are directed to provide us with accurate information of tactical value regarding the conglomeration of wild human bioforms self-designated Dahlgren Brigade, a semi-autonomous component of the Freikorps Robojager’s Nordic Forces.” This was bad. They had her unit. Did they know her mission? Or was it a guess? Be dumb. Little girl lost. “Uh, Frei-what? I’m just a nomad. A postman. I think you’ve got a circuit loose . . .” Both machines said nothing. Her bluff was useless. They knew. How much? Did they know about Holmstrom? About the Russian she’d delivered? But some sort of communication must have passed between the Tarantula exterminator and the Redjack infiltrator, because the priest-thing suddenly lunged forward, fast as lightning. It picked her up like she was a baby. She struggled then, but she was a mouse in a kitten’s jaws. “Father William” carried her squirming body tucked under one arm, almost without effort, through the door. The Tarantula did not follow. Eve was carried down a long gray corridor, sloping downward. There was no light. Many machines used infrared, had little need of it. She had to make a plan, she knew, but being carried dangling upside down, the blood rushing to her head, it was so hard to concentrate. Then something big clanked down the corridor. A technical robot, maybe, but whatever it was, the Redjack halted to let it past, and for a second its grip on her slackened, and she struggled again, nearly squirmed free before it caught her again.
Nearly didn’t cut it. The Redjack tightened its grip, then paused for a second, as if calculating the precise response her tiny act of defiance merited. Then it shoved her hard against the wall, took hold of her neck, and squeezed on her carotid artery. Eve had no time to protest. Everything went black. Awakening. Eve wasn’t thirsty any more, but there was a thin, metallic taste in her mouth. She was lying on something hard and firm. Straps restrained her ankles, neck, waist, arms. A drip fed into her arm. She opened her eyes. A cold, white space. She was in a room, though it was hard to say how large, as she couldn’t move her head. A light came from everywhere at once. And then she saw it. Half of a metal ball, dull silver, resting on a pair of caterpillar tracks. Lenses that tracked her movement. Three jointed arm tips with instruments. Needles. Prods. Scalpels. She had heard stories. It had a name. Inquisitor. “Life unit now redesignated as prisoner OSL-57382. You are currently in a state of suspended termination. This status may change rapidly depending on your compliance.” It had a female voice, but there was something wrong about it. Like it was put together from bits of human voices. Don’t listen. Think. How much time had passed? The cuts and bruises she’d gotten when the machines had captured her were still fresh. So maybe only a few hours. “We know you are a member of the resistance forces, OSL57382.” “My name’s Eve, tin man.” She made herself sob. It was easy enough. “I’m just a scavenger!” she said. “A junkrat. I’m no soldier. I don’t . . .” “Testing shows a high level of compound MOS3-65-4B in your bloodstream.” “What are you talking about?” “It is an anti-Tyraline chemical agent, characteristic of highlevel couriers associated with VIRUS.” Ironic, Eve thought. Her own blood had betrayed her. But the vaccine must be working. “Your attempt at deception failed, OSL-57382. You will now cooperate.” “Why? You’re BERLIN, right? You hate us! You’re going to kill me anyway.” A humanoid shadow fell over her. “Father William” the infiltrator was back. “Lass, we haven’t decided how yet . . .” It stroked her hair. “That really is the only choice you have left. So tell us what we need to know.” “I don’t know anything.” The Inquisitor spoke: “Protosapient bioform, where is the location of the senior meat intelligence directing wild humans in this sector, self-designated Colonel Per Dahlgren?” Not good. Not good. They knew too much. “I’m not important. They move around. No one tells me . . .” The Inquisitor extended an arm, touching her, cold against her flesh. This was going to be bad. But if she could hold out . . . “Prisoner OSL-57382. You will answer my question now.” “Screw you, tin men! I don’t kno . . .” Her answer was a white hot pain from the thing attached to her. Her body arched as the electric shock hit her. The convulsive pain only lasted a second, but she fought against the straps, couldn’t move. “OSL-57382,” the Inquisitor’s voice said. “Did you perceive the stimulation?” “Yes,” she panted. “God, yes – don’t!” “Your only remaining function is to provide information. You have malfunctioned, and are being corrected. Where is Colonel Dahlgren? Where is your headquarters?” Eve was panting. “I don’t know!” she screamed. Another shock. Another. It went on and on . . . and then there was nothing. “Eve,” said a voice. “Eve, are you okay?” A gentle hand holding hers. Familiar voice. She tried to move. Couldn’t. Couldn’t see. “There’s bandages over your eyes. Don’t try to move. You’re in a field hospital. You were injured.” “Michael?” It was Michael. Captain Andersen. Her lover. The voice that went out from Sweden’s version of Radio Free Earth every week, the proud, strong voice she’d fallen in love with before she’d met him in person. Michael was here. But everything was so fuzzy. Her head . . . “We hit the Oslo complex – a quick raid. Got you and the others out. You did great, kid. You held out.” “I . . . didn’t think I could.” The VIRUS counter-interrogation training had paid off. She tried to move. Couldn’t. “How bad am I?” “Not bad. You’re on a stretcher. But we need to move fast. We got split up during the evasion protocol. The unit is scattered, we’ve lost track of Colonel Dahlgren. Where was he supposed to meet you? What sector?” Michael’s voice was urgent. He was stroking her hair, while holding her hand. Eve was about to answer. And then . . . Stroking her hair. Holding her hand. Michael had only one hand. Had lost the other when a Juggernaut’s laser had burned him two years ago. It wasn’t Michael. It was the infiltrator, imitating his voice. She was still there. In the white room. The machines must have sensed her realization . . . or the sensors they were monitoring her did. The lights came back on. She had been right. The infiltrator, the false Father William, was standing over her. The Inquisitor was next to him.
Functional life-units were sources of valuable information. The mere threat of certain stimuli usually brought at least limited co-operation from any life-unit. – Fred Saberhagen, Stone Place