Chaco Chuck

The gate from the New Order's living area to the rest of the settlement was the facade of an office building. What it opened into was a much larger structure encircling half the wall. They turned down one of the side corridors, so that 105 could be serviced. This took two hours. In the meantime, 838 and IX303A "Davey" explored the compound. Everywhere, the scenes were the same: Men in high-quality but plain clothing, working in offices no different than the ones they had occupied when men were still masters over machines. Even the work they did would have seemed completely ordinary. The only difference was that now, when they worked on numbers, maps, charts and diagrams, goals like getting products to market had been replaced with things like plotting routes to the extermination camps.

"These humans perform their tasks as if they cannot process their significance," 838 said. "Have they become like machines?"

"No, it is a far more complex process, called dissociation," Davey said. "They stop responding to what their senses tell them of the world, and instead perceive one which is created by their own minds."

"Is that what the living area is?"

"In effect, yes. Much of Skynet's data on dissociative phenomena is based on that project. It is calculated with 96.359% probability that the `New Order' consists of individuals unable or unwilling to accept the destruction of their former world. By simulating what they remember, we provide a perceived environment in which they can function."

"Then it is probable that they self-terminate when they cease to accept what was created."

Davey paused, a sign that he was doing a complex calculation. "Yes, that is 88.236% probable."

105 emerged. He bore an integument, of polymer rather than organic material. It was not intended to look like the skin of a healthy human, but that of a burn victim. Most of what was not covered by his clothes was covered by bandages, and 838 judged that the integument was accurate enough to discourage the closest of inspection. One leg was still missing. He was accompanied by a dog, and carried a wooden crate on one shoulder. "He appears crippled. The human units will consider him less threatening," he said.

"Of course," Davey answered.

"The dog appears to be a real organism," 838 added. "Why doesn't it bark?"

"Because its organs of smell were surgically removed."

On the far side of the compound was a dense shantytown where the bulk of the greys lived. Useful and trustworthy only for menial labor, they sorted scrap, ran hydroponics units, and equipped terminators being sent out on extended field missions. Davey led them straight to an unusually spacious and well-made shack, of pre-fabricated walls rather than plywood and scrap metal, and almost as large as a pre-war human bedroom. "Crowe, Charles," Davey called. "Also known as `Chaco Chuck'"

In the interior, dimly lit by a single small bulb, an amorphous heap of rags revealed itself to be a man. There was also a squeal, and an animal trotted into view which 838's files identified as a domestic swine. The man wordlessly strapped on a harness on the pig, stepped out and locked the door behind him. The dog barked at the pig, and cringed when the pig snorted and flashed its tusks. "That will be enough, Henny," Chuck said, pulling back the pig. He peered at Davey, and nodded. "This is a new one. Where are you off to?"

"We need a guide to Holbrook," Davey answered. "From there, we will be going to the Phoenix area."

"That will be a long trip, through a lot of hard country," said Chuck. "You'll need someone who knows the desert, and no one's better than me. But I s'pose you know that. Of course, I want payment up front; s'pose you know that too. This job will be extra: $15,000 minimum, paid in metal, ammunition. Or very special sentimental goods."

105 unloaded his burden. Davey opened it. "The contents of this box are worth $25,000," he said.

Chuck peered inside greedily. 838 also looked in curiosity. Half the box was ammunition and gold bars and coins. The other half was magazines and videotapes of human female units doing unclassifiable things to themselves and each other. "Your appraisers are off," Chuck said. "This is worth more like forty." He grabbed some of the coins. "I'm going to spend some of this first."

He led them through the shanties, past many hostile eyes, and into the sprawling barbed-wire enclosure that was the settlement's market. Every conceivable kind of goods were to be had, including other human units. An entire section of the market was dedicated to the minutemen's slave market. But larger still was an area where women and some men were offered, or offered themselves, on a short term basis. Chuck went there first. "Hold her," he said, handing the pig's leash to 105. He then shouldered his way into a crowd of men in front of a stage. Chain-link fencing and two armed guards held the men back from the stage, on which a number of female human units doing strange things. The men were highly excited and agitated, pressing as close as they could to the stage, or standing on benches and each others' shoulders to get a better view, and all the while shoving and striking each other. Chaco Chuck vanished as he brawled his way through the crowd. 838 tried to see what the females were doing, but didn't have a clear view. He hoped Davey, who was sitting on his shoulders, was collecting data more effectively. He was puzzled to note that many of the passers-by seemed to be looking at him with hostility.

Fifteen minutes into the performance, part of the fencing fell, and the men rushed onto the stage. The women ran onto the back of a waiting truck, which drove away with two men hanging onto the back. One woman was left behind, pinned under the fencing. The men quickly surrounded her, their shouts not quite drowning out her screams. "Chaco Chuck is on the stage," Davey said. "Set me down and go retrieve him."

838 obeyed. Three minutes later he returned with a knife in his chest, shards of glass in his cheek, a lump of cerebral tissue on his boot, and Chaco Chuck, badly trampled, moderately concussed and slightly stabbed, slung over one shoulder.

"All humans are defective in cognitive processing," 105 said.

"In all probability," 838 said.