Even from three thousand meters, the scorched plain below me looks infinite. I climb in broad circles, carried by the warm power of the thermal, and the plain stretches as far as eye can see. Production towers rise, scattered across the waste, like lonely fingers reaching for the sky. From this altitude, two hundred meters tall buildings covered by solar collectors seem insignificant, but in this place, they are the source of everything.
I hang below an ultra light wing, twenty meters in span, searching for the clouds of dust above the desert. But, they’re not there. The herds are already gone. They started moving yesterday, maybe even the day before. Clouds rise above the distant ocean. In a day or two, they’ll be here, driven by the winds, to release their torrential rains and water the thirsty earth before disappearing, scattered, whipped into oblivion by the mercilessly hot sun.
I see several tiny spots in the air before me, some two kilometers away. Vultures, searching and looking at each other’s actions at the same time, just like me. And then, one spot goes into a steep dive and the others follow closely. There’s a wreck somewhere down there. I go after them, diving towards the hot sea of dust. I have to check if the wreck is tagged before they get to it.
I catch up with the vultures. They don’t pay any attention to me, as if I’m not hot on their tails. Shiny metal of their wings glitters in the sun as they dive towards the ground, losing the altitude with wild abandon, as if in some crazy kamikaze attack. Three thousand, two, one thousand, the numbers on my altimeter display dropping uncomfortably fast, and then I notice the machine. Turned to its side, its collectors scattered around, its body torn apart. The first scavengers are already down there, tearing the hull apart, and I know that the whole wreck will be dismembered in half an hour tops, chopped and taken to the nearest production tower.
I send a call-signal. I receive no response, the machine is not from the studied sample. But I recognize the type. A/3, called the wildebeest after the grey-brown color of its cowl. Its undercarriage is torn apart, wheels cut to pieces, oil leaking from hydraulics. The predators got it. I’ve watched them more than once as they catch up with their prey in the whirling dust, charging at the undercarriage in order to turn it over. And then, they open its helpless body with strong cutters and crawl inside to reach the batteries and the electric energy stored in them. Charged, the predators then leave, following the herds after new prey, while the wreck is left to the vultures. Just like any other eco-system, nothing goes to waste in this one.
* * *
Just like Serengeti, one of the scientific geniuses that try to solve the puzzle remarked once. When the first reconnaissance ships buzzed past the planet, it seemed lifeless, barren, empty. It has continents, huge rocky and sandy plains criss-crossed by mountain chains and deep chasms. It also has large oceans and an atmosphere, not exactly something you’d breathe with full lungs, but atmosphere nevertheless. The first reports were optimistic. The planet looked ideal for terra-forming and subsequent colonization.
Careful observations from low-orbit satellites followed. And when the photographs revealed herds moving across the plains, the optimism dwindled. The planet is a cradle of life, was the first thought. Terra-forming was immediately discarded, as well as any disruptions of the discovered eco-system. Perhaps smaller settlements and limited exploitation, but that was all one could hope for. These are the rules, and there’s someone in space to enforce them. It was made known clearly to the human race, notorious for the bad treatment of its home-planet.
Then, another surprise! Life is not life! The herds are not herds of animals, as was thought at first, but herds of machines. The eco-system became cultural heritage left behind by some unknown civilization, neither first, nor last that we know of. And cultural heritage is also protected vigilantly and with care. Because, one can never tell when will its creators, whoever they may be, return from the depths of the Galaxy to claim what is theirs.
More studies, and the comparison to African savanna became unavoidable. Six-wheeled herbivores that, instead of grazing grass, collect solar energy with the help of collectors spread across their hulls. Fast four-wheeled predators that pursue the herbivores, tear through their cowls, connect to their batteries and extract electrical energy. And the flying vultures, looking for the wrecks to chop them into small pieces and take the remains to the production towers. Africa indeed, all that remained to be done is name the machines. And so, the type A/1, the biggest one, three meters tall, became elephant. A/2, striped in dark stripes, is now zebra. And there are wildebeest and gazelles, and lions and wild dogs, even cheetahs.
But, no matter what their names, one thing the machines cannot do: breed. Therefore, the production towers, placed alongside the migration paths of the herds. We know they churn out new machines, using the parts brought in by the vultures. We also know that the system is balanced: the number of the machines always remains approximately constant. But, what really goes on in the towers is still beyond our comprehension. And the machines migrate. We learnt from the wrecks we managed to salvage before the vultures got to them that the machines are quite simple and lightweight in construction. Not even the elephants weigh more than half a ton. A body, covered with collectors in the A-types, containing electric engines and batteries. Supported by the undercarriage, wheels, shock-absorbers, transmission. Simple sensors and processors: the machines are not particularly smart. But, they migrate, driven by some programs written long ago. Every year, when winds bring rains from the ocean, they move deeper inland, into more arid regions. We are certain they escape the humidity: when the rains stop and the water evaporates, whipped by the heat, the herds return. Every year, along the same paths.
* * *
I fly towards the southeast, catching a glimpse of dust rising behind the moving herds on the distant horizon. Carried by the wing, I catch up with the first groups of wildebeest mixed with zebras. Elephants are in the distance. I look for predators, but I don’t find any. They probably wait somewhere ahead for some machine to lag behind. I descent, broadcasting the call-signal. Nothing replies me. I activate the sights, red cross is drawn across my visor. I arm the missiles and dive, the arrowhead shadow of my wing rushing across the dull brick earth like some menacing bird of prey ready to pounce upon a hapless animal.
I speed towards the herd of elephants, training my sights on the one that lagged behind. I launch the missile, and as I pull out from the dive, I follow its trail until it hits the rear part of the bulky body. The missile head splatters, sticky fluid splashing across the hull and drying instantly in the hot sun. And glued in it, a small transceiver starts working. I send a call-signal and I receive the response immediately: this elephant is tagged.
We try to understand. How are the herds organized? Where do they move? How do machines relate to each other? How long do they last? Dozens of questions demanding years of studies. That’s why the machines have to be tagged, each with its own transceiver, its individual identification code. And in the vast expanses of the parched plain, it’s easiest to tag them from the air. And when the folks in the white looked for people to do the job, I applied. Why not? It’s not boring, they pay, and it’s also fun to shoot something that can’t shoot back.
But, as I dive again and choose another target, I know that maybe we’ll never know the answers to the most important questions. Who designed the whole system and set it in motion? Who erected the production towers, programmed them, gave them the initial quantities of raw materials? And to what purpose? And as the missile whistles out of its launch tube, the whole plain suddenly reminds me of a big abandoned playground. And the machines are just discarded toys, overgrown by some child ages ago, that, still winded, await for some new kids.
Nema komentara:
Objavi komentar