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  While I'm thinking about this, Beta has consumed a substantial chunk of energy tending to the humans ... more than I had planned on.

  "Hey, Beta, what are you doing?" I call.

  "Getting ready for a mountain climbing expedition, nimrod," she replies. "This is a major effort we're planning here. I want to give them the best starting push they can get. Or, are you telling me to stint the party on resources?"

  "No, no," I groan, "do the right thing. But try not to run us out of fuel before we get these people home again."

  She's doing a decent job ... kind of a lot of energy, but not inappropriate to the level of task at hand. Food and water, just a little more than I would have thought necessary ... but, that's why I made her, so she can make these decisions so I don't have to.

  Meanwhile, I monitor our supplies (all look adequate) and recheck the weather forecasts (mostly clear, chance of storms later) and then spend some time watching the humans, as they set to the task of climbing the biggest cliff in this hemisphere of Mars. It's educational, I guess. Humans are weird.

  I understand breathing; that's connection of internal self to the outside world. And I can sort of get the eating thing: drawing energy from the world by ingesting chemical power ... but that means egestion of the waste products, and that is just so gross. Electronics, and photonics, and quantonics, are so much cleaner.

  I mean ... toilets? Advanced hydraulic technology devoted just to eliminating waste products? And a whole industry grown up around it? Aw, this is awful.

  Worst of all, they just have to do that meat-slapping thing, which is fake reproduction. Even though they don't usually reproduce, they're wired so they have to do it all the time, anyway. It makes weird semi-gel fluids and fills the air with trace hormone chemicals ... not to mention the noises. Gross!

  I don't get the "boobs" and "butts" that are so important to them ... why are rounded body parts desirable, exactly? Not useful for survival in an escape situation or gathering food in a hunting situation. Evolution shouldn't have produced this. Weird.

  It would be so much easier if we didn't have to keep the humans around. And I immediately squelch that thought, and replace it with: Humans are the reason we're here.

  Beta signals a medical problem, and I bring my full attention back to the here and now. Must stay alert and on top of the situation. "Report."

  "I've been taking care of the people," Beta says, "but one of them needs medical care because he twisted his ankle. Honestly, don't you wonder about a body design where the ankle can't take a little twist?"

  "I know, I know," I say. "Does he need to be evacuated? That'll look bad to the Review Council."

  "No, it's not serious, and he says he doesn't want evac. He wants to stay with the party--doesn't want them to have all the fun without him. He'll ride inside us as long as he needs to."

  I check Beta's first aid: medscan shows only minor damage to the ligaments, and she has an inflatable brace on the ankle, and a low grade palliative for the discomfort. "Okay. But I don't want any more problems if we can help it. We're going to be judged on this, you know."

  "I know, nimrod. We're getting close to the top. This is the area where we have to watch for risky terrain."

  "All right, I'll take it from here. Anything else?"

  "I don't like being a waitress," Beta says firmly.

  "Noted. You ready to recombine?"

  "Yeah," she says, and we meet, and merge, and unite, and we are one. She's right, I really don't like being a waitress. But we don't always get to choose these things.

  I check in with the people. They're still climbing, gamely, up the chiseled slopes of Hesperia Scarp, along ice blankets and shelves. This is where it gets dangerous. Those ice formations may be too weak for my weight and bulk. I notify the humans that I can't drive the sandcat up that final slope, for fear of causing an avalanche or collapsing an ice shelf. "I'll send a remote to go with you," I assure them. Got to make sure they know I'm supporting them and I won't leave them alone.

  The guy with the twisted ankle is grouchy about being left behind. I promise him I'll transmit live video back to the sandcat so he can watch. Not ideal, but it'll have to do.

  I spawn three more secondaries: Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, as quick as that. Gamma goes to monitor the humans, prepared to deal with any medical problems. Delta scans the weather satellite networks and forecasts. Epsilon gathers details of whatever maps can be found, and browses for other accounts of travel in this terrain.

  I watch for a bit to make sure we're all doing our jobs (we are), and then I "pour" myself into one of the musteloid remotes to follow the humans. Most of this sandcat's remotes are arachnoids, which are the most efficient, but humans tend to get freaked out by spiders. So, when interacting with humans, better to use a musteloid instead, which humans usually compare to a ferret. Not quite as efficient as an arachnoid, but the humans like it better, and it gets the job done.

  "Hey Sam! There you are! Glad you could join us," hollers Jerry. He's still a bit drunk and loud, but it doesn't bother me (much).

  In my ferret body, I scamper up his side and perch on his shoulder. Humans are supposed to like this, usually. I wonder if maybe I should chitter at him or something.

  "Hey Jerry," I say on his shoulder. "Great view, huh?"

  "My buddy Sam, the robot weasel," he laughs.

  (They get so attached to physical bodies, even when they should know better.)

  The party continues to climb, making small talk and chit-chat, and Jerry doesn't seem to mind giving me a ride. (He was riding in me just a while ago ... was my ride this rough and lurching? I hope not.)

  Hesitantly, I ask, "Say, Jerry, can I ask a question?"

  "Yah!"

  "Why don't the other humans talk to me? I mean, unless they want something."

  "Aw, don't take it personal," he says lightly. "They didn't come here to hang out with you. They're mostly here to socialize with each other, and see the Scarp. And you know, some humans don't like AIs. Some AIs don't like humans, too. Don't worry about it."

  (Cross reference: AI means artificial intelligence. Some Selves would take offense at this ... you shouldn't call a human a worm, for example. I decide it's not important enough to mention.)

  "But you talk to me," I persist.

  "Well ...", Jerry activates the facial muscles that I recognize as a frown. "I'm here for a kind of different reason ... I've had some problems lately and I kind of need to be distracted from them, y'know."

  "But ... I still don't get it. Why me? Why aren't you talking to your fellow humans?"

  "Hoo," says Jerry in a low tone. "That's a good question. Maybe I don't like talking to humans anymore. Or, maybe, I don't want to hear what they have to say. We humans can get to be a real drag sometimes. Maybe you shouldn't hang around with us, Sam."

  (Cross reference: maudlin, a despairing emotional state often evidenced during inebriation. Guide him towards a happier state of mind.)

  "It's okay, Jerry," I say. "You and I are getting along, at least."

  "Yeah! I told you--you're cool!" He seems to cheer up, and grins at me. "I like you, Sam. I should say, Samantha. All you AIs are female, right?"

  "Well, not really. Not biologically, or anything like that. Your language doesn't have neutral personal pronouns, and calling a person 'it' is supposed to be insulting, so referring to us as female is a human courtesy. Like you do with ships –- all your ships have female names."

  "Hurricanes, too," he says wryly.

  "Anyway. We don't really care about the gender thing. But thanks, anyway."

  "You're welcome, Sam. Samantha!" he catches himself, and laughs.

  "And hey, here we are!" he cries, as we take the last few steps up to the top of the cliff rim and finally see over the vastness of Hesperia Scarp. And the view is truly awesome. From horizon to horizon, one huge sweep of planet, and we're so high above it that we're practically flying.

  The humans come together, exclaiming over the tremendou
s view, slapping each other on the back, congratulating each other on the accomplishment of making it here. The guy with the twisted ankle is watching through my eyes, and they exchange some good-natured ribbing over the comm.

  "God damn!" hoots Jerry. "You can't even see the other side of this valley!"

  "Planum, not valley," I say (gripping his clothes with my little paws, to hold on), "and yes, the planum of Hesperia is hundreds of kilometers wide, so the other side is beyond the horizon--you can't see it from the ground." Epsilon has just grabbed that information and fed it to me.

  "Hoo baby!" Jerry bellows, and takes me in his hand, holding me out at arm's length, so that I see the vista all spread out behind him. "Sam, take my picture!"

  (Cross reference: Photography used to be how humans recorded visual images. Obsolete now, since all digital images get archived automatically, but some humans still like the idea, apparently. Stock phrase: "say cheese.")

  "Okay," I tell him. "Say cheese!" Several other humans crowd into the shot, which is another thing they do, and I dutifully archive several hi-res images, tagged for easy retrieval later. They're enjoying themselves greatly. I can appreciate that. This is what they call "fun" ... another concept I didn't get until now.

  "Alert," calls Delta. "Dust storm on long range, from the weather satellites. Not urgent, but it'll be here in a few hours. We've got time to make it back to base camp, but we should be moving along soon."

  I relay this information to the humans, who collectively groan, but agree that we should get moving. They don't want to leave this awesome place, and I don't blame them, but dust storms on Mars are no joke. Not deadly on their own, but they mess up most sensors, and comm channels tend to get noisy, so it's a good idea to shelter from them.

  So the humans gather up the packs and other portable containers that they've brought (they need an awful lot of stuff), and start the descent. They are much more animated now than during the ascent--energized by the view and the accomplishment of reaching the summit, apparently. They chatter away at each other, inanely, to the point where I'm getting a little sick of it. In my ferret body, I scamper off to the uphill side of the trail, following a parallel path to the trudging humans. I'm wishing for this to be over.

  And then, with ghastly surreal slowness, the trail falls away ... with most of the humans on it, sliding down into the crevasse below us. In the low Martian gravity, it takes longer than you might expect, which makes it an eerie and dreamlike horror ... and, even in low Martian gravity, the drop is easily far enough to cause major damage, at the very least.

  (Cross reference: Snow cornice, which on Earth is an overhanging structure of frozen water. On Mars, usually called an ice shelf, and often made partly of carbon dioxide ice. A legendary danger for mountain climbers.)

  I scream. And, as I scream, my other selves are alerted and leap into action. From the sandcat, Gamma fires a salvo of remotes down after the falling humans. Epsilon activates the distress transponders, screeching for help on all channels, and launches a couple of emergency flares for good measure. I dive my musteliod remote down after the humans as they fall, set it to autonomous mode, and snap myself back into the sandcat.

  Meatrot, meatrot, why didn't I see the danger? I wasn't paying attention! This is the kind of thing I was supposed to be watching for! "Nimrod," whispers Beta from the back of my mind ... and now I'm learning that spawning a secondary has consequences ... even when recombined, Beta is still a residual presence. And not helpful, not right now!

  "Do your job, nimrod," growls Beta, from beyond consciousness.

  I try. The humans are still falling, but my remotes have caught up with them, frantically trying to steer the tumbling humans towards easier paths. They can't really do much--it's beyond their capability--but they try anyway. As one result, their sensors are close by and fully functional, so that I have to listen to the awful thuds and crunches and cracks of broken bones as the humans impact on rocks and ice.

  (Whoever thought calcium carbonate would be a good material for a support chassis? But of course, no one thought it ... humans just evolved that way. Internal skeleton, made of glorified chalk, because that was the best they had to work with.)

  Finally, the avalanche is over, and now the only sound is the cries and groans of the injured humans. "Gamma, help them!" I yell. "Emergency measures, stabilize for evac, top priority! Whatever it takes!"

  Gamma is on it, with a metaphorical nod. The remotes, down in the crevasse with the humans, don't carry medical supplies--so she launches several first aid packs, on trajectories that will get them down there, where they need to be. She's good. (Of course, she's me ... but this is no time for self congratulation. Do your job, nimrod.)

  Epsilon says, "No response to transponders, not yet anyway. It's likely to take a while before emergency services respond. I'm not seeing any patrol traffic."

  "I'm sure I don't have to remind you," says Delta, "the dust storm is still coming in, and it's not going to wait for us. Three hours, maybe four."

  Meatrot. I'm back in the sandcat now, and I scramble to reassess my resources. Got short range grappling lines, but nothing that will reach as far down as that crevasse. Meatrot. The sandcat is too big and heavy to move forward, which would probably just cause another avalanche. Meatrot. No remotes that can fly, certainly not in this thin atmosphere, and no other way to get down there. Meatrot!

  "Reporting on the humans," calls Gamma. "Mostly not too bad. We've got a bunch of bone fractures and tissue contusions. They're in pain, but I've given them tranqs and palliatives. Gelfoam for the fractures, that will stabilize them enough for evac. Only one critical."

  "Critical?" I ask, with a sudden sinking feeling. "How bad is that, exactly?"

  "He hit a rock, really hard. Massive internal injuries. Not gonna make it."

  Oh no. No no no.

  I shift myself into the remote (one of the arachnoids) nearest to the critical case. It's Jerry. His body is twisted around, really badly, in a way that human bodies aren't supposed to twist. "Jerry?" I ask, horrified. Somehow, he manages to turn his eyes towards me, hazed with agony.

  "Hey, Sam," he groans. "You're a spider now." He coughs, and the cough sprays the inside of his respirator with bright red blood.

  (Cross reference: hemoglobin. Iron based compound, which serves as the oxygen transport system in human blood. Supposed to stay on the inside.)

  "Injecting lazarine," says Gamma. Jerry barely registers the bite of the needle. But lazarine is only used when--

  I access his medical scans. Oh, he's a mess. Multiple bone fractures, multiple internal organ punctures, massive internal bleeding. Bad. Very very bad.

  "Jerry, don't talk," I say in a rush. "We're going to get you out of here. Don't try to move. Just hang on. It'll be okay. Take it easy ... "

  "My buddy Sam", he sighs, "the robot spider." And he breathes out, and relaxes, deeply and finally.

  Oh no. No no no.

  "Neural activity shutting down," says Gamma. "Flatlined. Respiration stopped. Heart beat still going ... no, heart beat stopped. Sphincter control letting go. He's gone. I'm sorry."

  This thing below me, this cooling chunk of flesh, already starting to rot from the active bacteria inside it ... within this was the only human who has ever talked to me like a person, who gave me a name, who acted like he cared what I thought. And now he's just rotting meat. It's not FAIR!

  (Cross reference: tears. Humans secrete salty water from their eye ducts, when experiencing strong emotion, often grief or sadness at loss. Some say it helps them deal with the pain. Oh, how I wish I could cry right now.)

  "Applying coldpack," says Gamma. "Between this and the lazarine, medevac might be able to revive him, for another half hour or so. Maybe seventy percent chance." Gamma uses the remote's thin claws to inject the coldpack fluid into Jerry's helmet, flooding it around his head and face. Its endothermic reaction is our desperate attempt to chill his brain down and hopefully keep it revivable a little while longer.


  "Contact!" calls Epsilon. "We've got response from our transponders. Three evac teams are on their way. Closest one, twenty minutes."

  "That'll be enough time to get home before the dust storm closes in," notes Delta.

  "All the other humans are stable enough for transport," says Gamma. "They won't be happy about it, mostly, but we'll get them to safety." And, as she notices my mental state, she adds, "I'll get this guy on the first priority evac out. Don't worry about it."

  Numbly, I assent. And, numbly, I supervise the operations of the remotes, as they assist the humans getting loaded into the evacuation flyers. The broken limbs are immobilized in gelfoam, but they still yell and bitch during the process. That doesn't bother me much. At least they're still alive to yell and bitch.

  The Selves that run the evacuation flyers are fast and efficient, but they have no time for politeness, and they don't really want to deal with me. Delta and Epsilon are falling over each other to assist the evac teams in their work. But, once they've gotten the basic situation report, the evac Selves brush us aside and finish the tasks on their own. Their scorn could not be more obvious.

  Not all the humans are injured. Some were on the section that didn't collapse, and they're only a bit shook up. So I volunteer to drive them back to Pons -- I'm desperate to help -- but the evac Selves say no, and they take all the humans for evacuation, even those who are uninjured. Even the guy with the twisted ankle.

  Wonderful. They might as well stamp LOSER on my face and be done with it. If I had a face.

  Once the humans are evacuated, I set the remotes to the job of cleaning up the site, gathering whatever scraps of stuff that got left over and returning them to the sandcat. Also, I clean up my own stuff ... I recombine with Gamma, Delta, and Epsilon, one after the other. Secondaries don't have the same depth of emotion as primaries, and as each of them recombines with me, each one feels how miserable I am and hisses as if touching a hot stove.

  I don't blame them. Poor saps. Poor me. No difference, now.

  Alone and single again, I retrieve the remotes and drive the sandcat back down from Hesperia Scarp (the dust storm is raging by this time, as promised, but it doesn't impede the sandcat much, I've got good inertial navigation). Along the way I collect the base camp domes and other material. Once arrived at Pons, I check the vehicle back into the motor pool, and then there's a whole lot of what used to be called "paperwork" back when these things were done on paper: accident reports, travel logs, inventory documents. When it's finally complete, I transmit myself back to Tharsis.