I guess that answers the question of if he’s still alive or not.
Sighting prey, the indecent machines picked up speed. Tris had less than a minute before they’d reach him — and the untrained, defenceless gaggle of humans surrounding him. He glanced at the giant doors, which were still retracting. “Can we close those?”
“With the bomb on this side of them?” Alek asked.
Tris cursed under his breath. The plan hadn’t even started, and already it was in tatters.
“Are those talos?” Leader asked, gesturing with his spear. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Those are what we came here to destroy,” Tris told him. “Only I was hoping that most of them would be in pieces.” These models were clearly hot off the production line, though there was one thing to be grateful for; their accessories were obviously being manufactured somewhere else, and that included their weapons.
Alek, who’d had a rifle slung over his shoulder for days without ever using it, suddenly grabbed it and started shooting. “We can’t let them reach the generator,” he said, squeezing off volley after volley.
Tris glanced down at the detonator on his belt, and caught his meaning. The robots they’d faced on the barge had been clever enough to dismantle explosives. All these ones had to do was pull the brick-like bombs off the big machine’s housing, and they’d granted themselves an instant reprieve of at least a decade.
He grabbed his own rifle and snapped off a series of shots, striking several robots in the front rank. The hits did little damage though, burning away skin to leave blackened but unbroken metal showing through. Alek fared even worse; he was a lousy shot in spite of the close range. He seemed to recognise this as well, throwing his rifle to the floor and grabbing his tablet.
Tris kept up a steady stream of shots, out of desperation more than anything else. He struck sparks here and there, but he’d be lucky to bring down a single robot before they reached him. Swearing, he also ditched his rifle and pulled the knife from his thigh. He was attaching it to the handle when a deafening crunch came from behind him, shaking the floor.
“What the hell?”
And then a cleaning bot zipped past him, clipping his foot before zooming off at top speed. Another followed it, and another… and suddenly the ground was awash, as a torrent of tiny machines swept around the humans and made a beeline for the approaching army.
Alek was cackling madly, as he sent a swarm of welding spiders scuttling after them.
“Yes!” Tris yelled, punching the air with his glaive. “Say hello to my little friends!”
It was the strangest battle he’d ever witnessed. Dozens of cleaning bots mobbed each Viktor, bashing themselves repeatedly into legs and feet. At first, this did little more than disrupt the larger robots’ formation; a swift stomp from a heavy foot was enough to turn the miniature cleaners two-dimensional. But then one Viktor misjudged, stepping onto a toaster-sized carcass only to have it shoot out from under him. The robot toppled, taking several others with it — and as that little pocket of chaos caused the others to break formation, the spiders arrived. With plasma torches flaring, they raced toward the forest of robotic limbs.
“No combat protocols,” Alek shouted, “so I’ve put them into salvage mode!”
This time, the effect was more dramatic. The spiders swarmed over their opponents, bringing their torches to bear on vulnerable joints. The Viktors yanked them off, tearing them apart or hurling them away, but it was their turn to be outnumbered. The damage began to add up, and several of them collapsed with their lower limbs neatly removed and chopped up into segments.
Unfortunately, the humanoids were not only bigger and more durable, they were also smart. With no external weapons of their own, they stopped flinging the welding spiders away and instead flipped them over to use their torches on their fellows. With a degree of cooperation impossible in humans, they moved in perfect synchronisation to neutralise the spiders on each other. Tris saw the end approach, as the casualties mounted. With five times as many welders they might have prevailed; he could see Alek frantically tapping his tablet, trying to summon more of the things, but he knew it would be too little, too late.
Ah, crap. Time to get my hands dirty, I guess.
“Get out of here,” he told Alek, and tossed him the detonator. “Pack these guys into the shuttle as fast as you can. If I’m not there in five minutes, take off and blow this place to bits.”
Ignoring the coder’s protest, he squeezed the handle of his glaive to extend it. Maybe half the robots had been downed, though that didn’t mean they were completely out the fight. Unfortunately, that still left a sizeable bunch — fifty at least — that he would have to chop his way through one at a time. There was no point doing the math. Whichever way he looked at it, this was going to hurt.
My own fault, he reminded himself. I was the one who wanted to see Kyra’s homeworld. I just thought there’d be more tea and biscuits, and less scenes from Terminator 2.
He started forward, his glaive at the ready.
And with a many-throated yell, the warriors of the Faithful entered the fray.
With a fury born of years pent up inside a windowless tin can, they hurled themselves at the machines. Where their spears fell, great showers of sparks arced up; Viktor’s robots staggered beneath their onslaught, electricity crackling up and down their bodies.
Tris reached the battle just behind them, driving his glaive into Viktor’s snarling visage. He spun his weapon, laying the robot’s inner workings open and sending it crashing to the ground. He was over it and moving towards the next as the second wave of Faithful hit.
They didn’t last long. The Ring-dwellers had neither skill nor tactics. Every blow from a robot fist smashed a human limb, or staved in a skull. The warriors were falling into each other, colliding with their weapons and tripping themselves up. Tris fought on, but had to keep his distance for fear of receiving an unintentional spear-slash.
And then, as the robot he was fighting collapsed headless, he saw something that made his blood freeze.
More of them.
Another squad coming over the horizon, identical to the first…
Only these ones were carrying rifles.
All hope went out of him. Surviving was no longer an option; just staying alive long enough to make sure the bomb went off was looking difficult. As laser blasts strobed, cutting down a few men that had strayed from the throng, Tris glanced around to take stock. Dead and dying people littered the ground; robotic torsos crawled over their own severed limbs, seeking fresh targets. A few clusters of the Faithful still lived, having figured out the defensive capabilities of the spear in record time. But their struggle was almost over; Viktor’s reinforcements would tear them apart without ever coming into stabbing range.
Thank god Alek got away, he thought, and praised his own foresight. With Jen waiting on the ship, they could be reaching safe distance ready to blow the generator at any moment. He glanced back to reassure himself…
And saw Alek still standing in front of the generator. He hadn’t budged an inch; still madly tapping away on his tablet, he was coaxing another mixed handful of mini-bots towards the battle.
“Alek!” Tris screamed at him. It was pointless; there was nothing that could save him now. The coder had signed his own death warrant — Tris just prayed he had the courage to set the bomb off before being taken out by a laser blast.
Alek waved at him, and Tris damn near lost his head to a robot arm as he gaped, open-mouthed, at that reaction. Is he nuts? What the hell does he think is happening here?
A few swift cuts reduced the opponent to scrap, but Tris was exposed now, and a bright red laser beam slammed into the Aegis. The rumble of the generator was growing louder again, making the ground quake, and Tris wondered if Alek had done something to it. Maybe it’s going nova right now? At least that way, Viktor won’t get me. He swung his glaive at the nearest robot, realising that he’d managed to carve his way throug
h half of them. It didn’t matter; the last bunch of Ring-dwellers were standing their ground, but they were defenceless against the new arrivals. A few smashed spiders struggled to rise, their torches scorching the deck beneath them.
And behind the rifle-toting robots, several boxy containers loomed into view.
Tris froze mid-strike, as his brain caught up with the pictures his eyes were sending it.
Not containers… they’re… LOADERS!
His jaw went slack, but he punctuated his next strike with a triumphant yell.
And the oversized, industrial-grade hauling machines slammed into the back of Viktor’s robots like a six-pack of freight trains.
The din was tremendous. The lead ranks recognised the danger and turned to blaze away with their rifles. The shots had precisely zero effect, other than to seal their own fate. Steel limbs and torsos popped and crunched beneath wheels the size of a mining truck’s, exploding like fireworks as their power cells ruptured.
Not all of the robots were crushed in the first charge. Some scattered, dodging off to the sides, and a pair of loaders split from the pack to pursue them.
Responding to this new threat, some of the Viktors engaged with the Ring-dwellers turned away and headed back to help their comrades…
And Tris realised that he was in with a chance.
Viktor may or may not have been piloting some of his surrogates remotely, but he wasn’t omniscient. He’d sent this force to deal with Tris’ crew, without knowing precisely what they were up to. Left to their own devices, the robots were prioritising their targets — and the huge generator sitting in plain view didn’t present nearly as much threat as the massive cargo haulers.
“Come on!” Tris yelled, slashing his blade across another victim. He’d chopped up so many versions of Viktor that he was starting to feel sorry for the dude. The remaining Ring-dwellers heard his cry and began to back away, their spears forming a thicket that bristled in all directions. Tris followed, picking off the robots that had stuck around, even while stray blasts from the others ploughed into his forcefield.
Alek had taken cover behind the generator, with Father Macca beside him. Tris reached them at the same time as First did. Blood was pouring from parallel furrows gouged across the warrior’s chest, but his eyes shone with battle-fever. The last six warriors of the Faithful gathered around him, all of them injured in some way.
“We can make it,” Tris told them, his breath coming in gasps. The pain in his shoulder was stabbing him now, as he felt his own combat-high fading. The burst of energy that had carried him since Laugarren was starting to ebb, leaving him shaky and cold. Sweat soaked him inside his suit, and he blinked stinging droplets out of his eyes. “Go now,” he said. “Run!”
Alek obeyed him at once, pocketing his tablet and sprinting back into the Ring-dwellers’ section.
The Faithful went more slowly, supporting each other in a tangled knot of spears and blood-soaked togas.
That just left Father Macca.
“Come on,” Tris said to him, “I can help you.”
“No,” the old man shook his head. “But thank-you for the offer. I’ve been waiting for those numbskulls to murder me in my sleep for years now.” He twitched his robe aside to reveal a heavy pistol in his hand. “I think I’ll stay here, and make sure this thing really does go off.”
Tris looked deep into the old priest’s soul, and knew that his mind was made up. He gave his shoulder a squeeze, but didn’t have any words left.
Father Macca smiled. “I missed out on the first Conflagration. I never thought I’d get a second chance.”
Tris lingered a second longer, watching the remaining robots blaze away at the rampaging loaders. Smoke gushed from the towering machines, but their ability to soak up punishment was extraordinary.
“Watch over the children for me, will you? They were sent to me as acolytes, but I didn’t have the heart to train them.”
Tris raised an eyebrow at him. “Huh. So there is such a thing as too much faith.”
Father Macca’s grin turned wicked. “Only if it’s the wrong one.”
And with that, time was up.
Tris nodded to him, and left the battlefield at a dead run.
The Gift helped him to navigate, and he ducked through any door that led him closer to the cluster of frightened humans cowering in Jen’s shuttle. He reached the airlock as the last of the Faithful staggered through it, and he slapped the button to close it behind him. “GO!” he yelled, putting enough volume into it to cut through the hubbub.
Jen heard him and detached from the Ring, veering away so violently that Tris fell across the laps of two young women who were strapped into the seats. He shot them apologetic glances as he righted himself, and found a convenient bulkhead to brace himself against as the shuttle picked up speed.
Something touched his hand, and he nearly slapped it away — before realising it was Alek, pressing the detonator towards him. He took it, flipping up the cover that protected its solitary button, and resisted the urge to kiss it for good luck. “Are we at safe distance?”
Alek shrugged. “We’re at some distance. They don’t publish yield-tables for ancient fusion reactors.”
Tris glanced around the cabin, and realised that Leader had been killed in the battle.
First was laying on the floor, suddenly looking very young and lost, with one hand pressing his robe against his wounds. His spear was still clutched in the other hand — even with its tip missing, he’d managed to do some damage with it.
Tris held the detonator out to him. “Hey kid — how would you like to cause a conflagration?”
THIRTY-SIX
Kyra felt the entire structure around her shudder as Jen’s shuttle took off. Crashes and bangs came from the direction of the hangar — she could well imagine the devastation being wrought above by the opening doors.
Poor Tris. She couldn’t help feeling bad about sending him up there unsupported. I mean, I made that trip with just Alek and Jen when I was a kid… but that’s me.
Tris had yet to prove his leadership potential. And sadly, that’s what Wardens were — solitary individuals who pursued their aims to the furthest reaches of the galaxy. Not only did they have to be comfortable working alone, they had to excel at it. Tris seemed to think their little group could just carry on infinitum, replacing fallen team-mates as they went. That was true, up to a point, but he was getting altogether too comfortable in that groove. It was going to be a rude awakening for him when she left.
Still, she trusted him to get the job done. And anyway, she was out of options.
“You want to check the hospital first?” Lukas asked her. They were moving quickly through the ruins of the old Laugarren base, but she wasn’t sure where they were in relation to the streets above.
I dunno, you leave a place for five minutes and they change everything.
“It’s that way,” he added, jerking a meaty thumb.
“How can you possibly know that? You’ve only been here once.”
He shrugged. “I fought my way through a few tunnels in my time. You get a sixth sense.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Seriously? Jungle fighting, tunnel fighting, and jumping out of aircraft… whoever was in charge of your unit must have hated you.”
“You’ve made a few enemies too,” he pointed out. “What did you do to Viktor to piss him off so much?”
“You mean apart from killing him? He’s probably just sore because he was beaten by a girl. By a bunch of us, actually.”
“Are any of them still around? We could use a bit more girl-power.”
Kyra studied the floor as they walked. She hadn’t talked about this stuff in years… hell, she hadn’t even talked about it when it happened. The faces of those girls rose unbidden, ghosts that had haunted her for as long as she could remember. Oddly enough, she felt like she could talk to Lukas. Maybe it was the nature of the experiences they’d shared, or maybe it was just because he expected nothing
from her. She took a deep breath, surprised to find herself tearing up. Issi’s death had left her raw and vulnerable; hardly the ideal conditions to be rescuing anyone. “One lived,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “I buried the rest. They were… ah hell, I can’t remember. Fifteen, sixteen maybe? I couldn’t protect them. I watched them die one at a time, but that didn’t stop me forcing the survivors to keep fighting. We got Viktor in the end, or we thought we did, but…” she shook her head, not quite able to finish that thought. She was almost the last of her sisters, she realised; only Vinni was left now, assuming Viktor hadn’t done something to her.
No, he won’t touch Vinni. He still needs her thumbprint on the Master Key.
And hopefully he didn’t know it took a thumbprint to activate it, or that might be the only bit of Vinni he decided to keep.
Lukas hadn’t said anything, and she was grateful for that. It was definitely one of his better qualities; knowing when to ask questions, and when to just shut up.
A minute later Aldur’s mind pinged up on her mental radar, and she was spared the need for more sharing. “He’s close,” she said, “and he’s in a watchful mood.”
“This whole damn place is watchful,” Lukas pointed out. “It gives me the creeps.”
They found Aldur several floors above, squinting at a dusty old monitor in a room that might once had been a security station. Everything of use had been stripped out, from the furniture to the wall panels; the bank of monitors must have been obsolete even before the Laugarrens migrated away from this shit-hole.
One cracked screen offered a hazy view of an empty corridor; another showed an empty white room with a bed in it, and a large square machine hanging from the ceiling.
“This is the hospital?” Kyra guessed.
“Sure is.” Aldur tapped a few controls, and the images were replaced by a fresh set. Only three screens were working, and he was having to flick between several different views.
Embers of Esper: A Sci Fi Adventure (Warden's Legacy Book 1) Page 30
