Blonde Bombshell by Tom Holt Read Free Book Online Page A

by valves. As a feat of engineering, it was almost as challenging as building a wireless transmitter. The brain was a real headache, a horrendous tapestry of nerves and synapses; who in his right mind would choose to build a computer out of bone, fibre, wobble and goo? Two eyes, low-resolution. A pitiful little blob for a nose, and vestigial ears. That done, it contemplated the finishing touches.
    Excuse me.
    The Mark Two replied, Well?
    Does it have to have hair?
    The Mark Two consulted its database. It had specified an adult male in the latter stage of its third decade, of the phylum Slavonic, eye colour blue, external appearance category — it cross-referenced with its cultural and linguistic archives. Apparently, the Dirter term for the appearance category it had selected was a Dish. Further research indicated that 72 per cent of all known Dishes had hair.
    Yes.
    The replication command centre said, Really?
    Really.
    Oh. Only—
    It was cybernetically impossible for the replication command centre to have a mind of its own, but that didn’t seem to stop it being difficult sometimes. Specification confirmed, the Mark Two said firmly. It has hair. Deal with it.
    Working, the replication command centre replied sulkily.
    Follicles installed, hair growth initiated. Specify pigmentation requirements.
    The Mark Two hesitated. RepComCen wasn’t going to like it. On the other hand, the archives were quite clear. Six feet tall, blue eyes, blond hair. It sent through the photoequivalence specification equations, and waited for a squeal of protest.
    Specified pigmentation cannot be produced from materials available. State alternative.
    The Mark-Two said, Do as you’re damn well told.
    Pause. Then, Working. But don’t blame us if—
    The Mark Two disabled the communications feed, and began the long job of assimilating and downloading files for transfer. Into a folder designated DirtBrain it placed everything the Ostar knew about Dirter history, culture, society, philosophy, psychology and biology. Then, with a degree of reluctance, maybe even dread, of which it hadn’t thought itself capable, it created a new folder and called it MyFiles. In it, it stored itself. Everything; copies of its memory archives, cognitive subroutines, logic and intuition protocols, self-enhancement and self-awareness tools, the whole shebang. Finally, it called up RepComCen and asked, Ready?
    As it’ll ever be, RepComCen replied.
    Oh well, thought the Mark Two, here goes nothing. It set the transfer switches to Commit, and downloaded the two folders, DirtBrain and MyFiles, into the synthetic Dirter’s cerebellum.
    When the lights came on again and it was once more aware of its own existence, its first thought was Fuck me, it’s small in here. It stopped, unable to understand its own thoughts. Access vocabulary and idiom database. Apparently, it was just an expression and not to be taken literally. Just as well, the Mark Two thought.
    Bombs don’t suffer from claustrophobia; but if they did, it would probably be something like the way the Mark Two felt when it woke up inside the Dirter brain. Trapped inside something small, dark and sticky; no interface with the rest of the universe apart from two forward-facing, parallax-based binocular eyes, really primitive auditory hardware, rudimentary touch, and two completely alien senses called “taste” and “smell” that it really didn’t want to have anything to do with if it could possibly help it. Processor speed was pathetic. System efficiency— It checked to make sure there was no mistake, but found its initial assessment was depressingly accurate. The Dirter brain, although dismally small and crude, was something like 65 per cent redundant. Amazing, the Mark Two thought, like living in a two-room shack and only using one room. Well, it’d see about that. It rerouted, defragmented and optimised, until it had access to 92 per cent. A bit better, but not much.
    Now, then, it thought. Let’s