For the past hour they'd poked through the machine's innards. The level of technology stunned them. The legs were all hollow, thin straws of the same tough platinum alloy that made up the shell. Long strands of a fibrous black material were anchored at multiple points inside the hollow tubes. The material appeared to be some kind of artificial muscle, although the strength-to-weight ratio must have been very high to make the heavy ALs move so quickly. The first two sections of every limb were identical, each about a quarter-inch in diameter and eight inches long. The last section was actually two thinner tubes, about an eighth of an inch in diameter and, again, eight inches long. Those two tubes — they'd dubbed them “split feet" — ended with a cluster of tiny retractable hooks or claws that were too small to do any damage, but perfect for gripping any type of rough surface.
The shell itself, about seven inches in diameter, was packed full of fascinating items. The black muscle material coated the inside of the shell, obviously providing locomotion for various external gadgets whose purpose remained a mystery. Angus and Randy didn't understand even half of what they saw. Angus figured that a large blue chunk of glassine material probably served as some kind of a battery. Randy thought he identified an irregular, faceted crystalline lump as the CPU, the AL's computer brain, but it was only a guess — the structure differed from anything they'd ever seen.
About the only things they could identify were a pair of tiny pneumatic pistons mounted behind the wedge-shaped head, and a simple radio transmitter and receiver. Four thin coils of wire, possibly tiny retractable tentacles, curled up inside the wedge. They were still guessing at their purpose.
Randy's wide eyes seemed to suck in every detail of the technological miracle. “You really think it's a genuine AL and not some kind of probe?"
"It seems so,” Angus said. “The radio transmitter and receiver are both fixed on a single frequency. That's not going to travel very far down here in the tunnels, so I don't think they're remote-controlled."
"They must use the frequency to communicate with each other,” Randy said. Angus nodded. Logic dictated the numerous ALs communicated somehow; it wouldn't make sense for a bunch of them to blindly wander around, covering the same ground over and over again.
"Still think you can scramble their signal?” Randy asked.
"I think so. If we fix our walkie-talkies to that frequency and transmit static, it should screw them up pretty bad."
"It's odd that they use simple radio frequencies, don't you think?” Randy said. “I mean, look at all this advanced technology. This thing is vastly ahead of anything I've ever seen."
"Yes, but look at it in a broader light,” Angus said. “The AL is very advanced, but it's also all very simple, and therefore very easy to maintain. As long as someone isn't trying to jam it, simple radio is very reliable at short range. And the leg joints; see how each joint mechanism is identical, no matter where it is on the body? That means they only have to make one part — easy to build, easy to replace and easy to keep in stock. These tunnels hold more square mileage than all of New York City. Think of how much space that is to explore. These things may have to last several months in order to get to a deep area and return to its launching point. Whoever built them needed something simple and reliable. Hey, something just dawned on me — there's no wiring in here. How does it work with no wiring?"
"I think that's the platinum,” Randy said. “See how all the artificial muscles are affixed to the shell's interior? The platinum carries the signals from the main processor and apparently each muscle sorts the commands. The signals go all over the shell, but specific muscles only react to specific commands.
"Yes, that must be it,” Angus said. “Platinum's conductivity makes it perfect. And the fact that it doesn't corrode and isn't affected by any temperature changes you'd find down here helps, too."
Randy shook his head in amazement. “This is pure genius. No wires to corrode or break, no fuses to short out — it just sends all signals through the shell. Even if the AL shell breaks or something punches a hole through it, it can still send signals to any part of the body. Incredible."
"Boy-oh-boy is Connell going to be pissed when he sees this,” Angus said gleefully. “There must be twenty pounds of platinum in this critter."
"Who the hell could afford to make such a thing? At $850 an ounce, it would cost around $270,000 just for the shell material, let alone construction and other components."
Angus looked thoughtfully at the dead AL, his mind collecting the available information, sorting it, cataloging it. There was far more going on down here than he had ever suspected. “No one can afford that much for a simple exploratory device, not to mention there's not enough platinum around to merit this kind of a machine. At least, not up there,” he added, jerking his thumb toward the surface.
"You think someone is already mining the Dense Mass?"
"They must be. No one is going to make machines like this out of platinum unless they've got tons of it. The Dense Mass is at the center of the entire tunnel complex. So the people who made these ALs must have found the Dense Mass and already mined it, or at least a portion of it."
"But how could EarthCore not have known that?"
"Hey, I'm sure there are people out there better at subversive tactics than Mr. Big Shit Connell Kirkland. He got fucked, that's all. Somebody did a number down here."
"That doesn't make sense,” Randy said. “If they already made it to the Dense Mass and mined the platinum — which we think they had to do to build the ALs — then why would they build them?"
They both fell silent for a moment, contemplating a situation that seemed to make no logical sense.
"I don't know,” Angus said. His mind searched for possibilities. “Maybe—"
A soft beeping from the motion-tracker's monitor interrupted their thoughts. Randy picked it up off the ground — one look at the screen made him freeze up with tension.
"What is it?” Angus asked.
"I think you'd better figure out how to jam those radio signals,” Randy said quietly, handing the monitor to Angus.
At least twenty red blips slowly pulsed on the screen.
O'Doyle cursed under his breath. He didn't know how many shattered silverbug bodies he'd left in his wake, but the damn things kept popping up all over the place. He was down to his last Beretta magazine, and only five shots remained. The silverbugs had quickly learned his effective range and stayed beyond it, far enough that he missed most of the time, but still close enough to reflect the light from his headlamp. They scurried across the tunnel floor and up the walls, moving away from the light as it flashed back and forth. The collective noise of their whirs and their feet clicking on rock filled the tunnel with an eerie, constant chatter. It sounded like a million wind-up toys packed into a small steel box.
The silverbugs increased their distance even more when Lybrand started shooting — her aim proved to be far more accurate than his. He felt a surge of pride each time she pulled the trigger and another silverbug erupted with a shower of sparks and that sickening smell of burning chocolate. If they ever got out of this, they'd make a killing betting on her aim at biker bars and gun conventions.
Suddenly and without warning, the silverbugs scurried away. His light flashed back and forth across the tunnel but saw nothing; no flashes of silver, no squiggling legs… nothing. The horrible click-buzz noise vanished as well.
"Where'd they go?” Lybrand asked, her hand still firmly on his back.