[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

It had given meaning to her life, where before she'd had none.
Not only did the Level Four females have an implanted genetic heritage in
common, but they also had a shared experience of transformation and a common,
connected future that was still unfolding. They were, in fact, much closer
than sisters.
This wasn't some sort of insectlike hive consciousness, but rather a clan
consciousness, an intense kinship that they all felt. Every one of them
believed
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that they, the ten, were at the core of something as yet incomplete, something
mysterious and new. Something more perfect. Something magical with its own
unique destiny and right to exist. The crescendo of their world had sent them
hurtling across realities, as if everything, all four billion years of its
existence, had led up to that single pregnant moment.
Despite the changes they had undergone, the sisters, Dredda included, still
saw themselves as women, only much improved. They knew that the male troopers
called them "she-hes" behind their backs. Even though it was scientifically
untrue, since there was nothing male about them, they allowed the practice to
continue because the reference to their strangeness and physical prowess had
discipline value. It kept the enlisted ranks in line without the need for
demonstrations of force.
In both universes, it had been fashionable at one time or another to speculate
that there would be no wars if women ruled the world. There was no way to test
the hypothesis, of course, since women never had that kind of absolute global
power in either reality. Dredda and her sisters subscribed to a slightly
different idea.
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They believed that there would be war, but only one. This, because women, if
granted the means, would conquer utterly; they would do the job right for the
sake of their offspring. Women, because of their biological function, their
much more intimate connection with the future, were prepared to take this
longer view.
And stick to it. History taught that in victory, men always had sympathy for
the male foe they had vanquished, that they always took pity because they
could see themselves in his position, as if war were a jolly game to be played
over and over with alternating winners. Men were the reason that nothing ever
got solved.
The Level Four females didn't view war as a game. Or jolly. They believed that
if they waged it once, and properly, they would never have to face it again.
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The "they" part was something Dredda hadn't anticipated. When she'd taken the
Level Four plunge, she'd realized that she would have no control over how she
changed or what she became. She'd done what she'd done for a reason, a sound
reason, because she felt she had no choice. It was another case of being
backed into a corner, then leaping before looking. After only a month in
Deathlands, her previous existence seemed like a dream that belonged to
someone else. A parade of empty acts and pointless accomplishments that
fulfilled someone else's plans.
Dredda was becoming herself in a way she never imagined.
The idea that on Shadow World she could be ruler of everything a living god
was no longer the stimulus that drove her on. The Alexander the Great, or
Regis
Otis Trask syndrome "I win! I survive!"-had been replaced by "We win! We
survive!" The appetite for power and the aptitude for beating animate and
inanimate into submission was still alive and well, but it was now a
cooperative venture.
The death of Kira had forced the sisters to examine their own mortality,
something their heightened physical abilities had made seem remote, at best.
Kira's tragedy had shown them that in some circumstances, being stronger and
faster wasn't enough to save their lives. It also showed them that they needed
to produce offspring as soon as possible, to replace those lost in battle. If
they were the ultimate survivors of their world, Ryan Cawdor was the ultimate
survivor of his. Which was the reason why Dredda wanted his genetic material.
With it and the viral transformation process, the sisters could birth a legion
of indomitable warrior daughters, which their portable Totality Concept
technology could then spread across the unmapped realities, like seeds on
fertile ground.
"What we have lost today cannot be replaced," Dredda said to the others. "A
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piece has been ripped from our hearts. Kira was brave and strong. And she
loved us as we loved her. Her love and her bravery made us proud. Whatever we
do after today, whatever we conquer, wherever we travel, she will always live
in our memory."
With that, Dredda bent and gently tipped the body bag over the edge. It made a
slithering sound on the glass, growing fainter and fainter. The black bag
slipped over the bulge five hundred feet below and disappeared into the
shadowy crease.
The sisters held gauntlets in silence. Moments passed, stretching longer and
longer. There was no sound of impact.
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As they turned from the chasm toward their waiting wags, Dredda noticed
something strange on the side of Mero's neck. It looked like an abrasion from
the collar of her battlesuit. "What's that there on your neck?" she said.
"It just appeared overnight," Mero replied. "It itches a little, but not too
much. I
think it might be from the battlesuit."
"That's odd," Dredda said. "I've got some minor irritation, too. But it's on
my shoulder. Could be from friction."
They had been living in the battlesuits for weeks now, and only getting out of
them in order to sleep. Under the circumstances, abrasions weren't unexpected,
even with the lubricant sprays they used to coat the inside of the armor.
Dredda knew that she and the others were spending way too much time in their
battlesuits, but to be outside the artificially intelligent armor was almost
unbearable. Without her suit, without the deluge of information it provided,
without the access to its nanosecond response lethality, she felt incomplete
if not
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crippled, and disconnected from her sisters. They felt the same.
"Jann," she called, waving over the medical officer. When the blonde she-he
stepped up, Dredda said, "Mero and I have got superficial skin rashes. Could
be from our battlesuits."
Jann looked at the side of Mero's neck, noting the small patch of redness near
the suit collar. "When we get back to the base," she said, "I'll give you both
a topical ointment. An anti-inflammatory and local anesthetic. And I'll take
skin cell scrapings for analysis. I don't think it's anything important, but
it never hurts to make sure."
Chapter Eleven
When Colonel Gabhart spun at the sound of his name, he lost his balance. Ryan [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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