“I guess. A little. I don’t have the kind of bond the boys have with their cohorts. I suppose I’m more reserved. It’s rubbed off on Uma and Doony.”
Uranti gave her a soft smile. “And yet, no one else in your yeargroup has given their muncs an actual name.”
“We’re not allowed to.”
“Dear me, is that a touch of rebellion I hear in your voice?”
“I was just being practical—and polite. Which seems a bit pointless now.”
“How so?”
“The modification; it’s the kind of phrase an old-Earth politician would use—given what you’re going to do to our poor muncs.”
“I see. Is that why you’re here?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to see them.”
“Them?”
“The combat cores you
“I understand. The map is not the territory.”
Yirella frowned for a moment. “Something like that. Yes.”
Uranti led her back into the main corridor and into a hexagonal hub chamber. The portal sie chose emerged into a section of the building Yirella had never been in before. She was in an observation gallery that ran along a clean assembly facility 150 meters long, with seamless pearl-white walls, floor, and ceiling; smaller glass-walled rooms lined the sides. In her t-shirt and shorts, with sandals on her feet, Yirella felt totally out of place. The few people she could see walking amid the industrial-size fabricators were all wearing hospital-style gowns.
“Those are Neána-style molecular initiators,” Uranti said, a degree of pride in hir voice as sie indicated the row of large cubes on the floor below. “We think, anyway. The insertion metahumans were never quite sure they mastered all the principles. Our own biogenetic science plateaued a long way short of this technology’s ability.”
“They made the muncs,” Yirella said tonelessly.
“Yes. The muncs are biologics. But I’m proud to say, a completely human design. We never had access to the creation programs the Neána insertion ship possessed.”
“And the combat cores, what are they?”
“A fusion of biologics and human weapons. This way.”
They walked along the gallery until they were overlooking the construction bays. A cohort of combat cores lay in their cradles, with genten remote arms moving around them, integrating the final layer of components. The living machines were matte-gray cylinders three meters long and two wide, with a wasp-waist constriction a third of the way along; both ends curved to form sharp cones. Their skin had rings of silver studs and sockets, ready to linc with external armaments and sensors. Even additional propulsion systems could be linced if they were operating in space or within a gas giant’s atmosphere.
“Aren’t they amazing?” Uranti said, hir eyes fixed on one with complete admiration. “The center section has a life support nucleus that will house the munc brain after it’s removed from the body. Drive units are exotic matter gravitonic manipulation. It’s all powered by triplicated aneutronic fusion chambers. Quantum entanglement keeps them connected to their master.”
“From the muscle sheaths,” Yirella said.
“Yes. The muncs can read every single body language posture the boys produce. They understand and respond to it all, big or small, refining the simple verbal orders. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to telepathy. In combat situations, that will be a monumental advantage. No time wasted shouting orders or interpreting what to do. The combat cohort instinctively knows what their master wants, and deploys accordingly. You’ve all spent sixteen years refining that empathic bond. The fight response will be instantaneous. And you and the other girls will direct it; you’ll be the lords of strategy.”
“You must be so proud,” Yirella said savagely.
Uranti gave her a long, questing look. “Yes. I am.”
“I wonder if the muncs are?”
“You’re anthropomorphizing, Yirella. That’s a mistake. The muncs are just biologics, that’s all. They’re alien machines.”
“That’s bollocks. They’re alive. Their neurology is modeled on a human brain. They have memory and emotional responses. Just because their cellular biochemistry is slightly different, that doesn’t make them a machine. They’re sentient. That’s why they willingly undergo…this.” Her arm jabbed out, taking in the combat cores. “They want it because the boys want it.”
“Of course they do. It’s why we’re all here. This is our purpose.”
“To wage war isn’t a purpose, it’s a threat reflex. We should be trying to think our way out of this mess.”