“Good,” she said brightly. “Now who are you, my friend?”
More beeps and flashes as the robot gave its name.
“TIG-442.” Serengeti laughed in surprise. “You were in Cargo Bay 4. Last time I saw you, you were repairing balky probe Number Ten.” Serengeti went quiet, thinking Six and Ten, all the other robots launched into space when Cargo Bay 4 vented. “Thought I’d lost you, little one,” she murmured. “Tell me, 442—just where have you been hiding all this time?”
The robot beeped in confusion, round head cocking to one side in question.
“Never mind. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
The robot’s face lights glowed brightly, every last light in his face showing in a cobalt blue blush of pleasure and embarrassment. He tapped his metal legs, magnetized ends rattling anxiously against the deck plates, burbling softly to himself.
“I’ve got a very special mission for you, 442.”
The TIG froze, cobalt eyes wide and staring, jointed legs wrapping close about his body. He looked up, then down, up again and down just as quickly, throwing shy looks at the camera.
More lights—long, swirling patterns scrolling across the TIG’s face, questions spelled out in cobalt illumination, wondering what this oh-so-special mission was.
You’ll see, Serengeti thought. Soon enough you’ll know everything
“Hold still.” Another touch as Serengeti squirted a data feed directly into the robot’s brain. “I need you to track that schematic backward and find Henricksen and Finlay. And then I need you to lead them to the lifeboat. I need you to make sure they safely get out.”
442 beeped and burbled, face lights flashing in acknowledgement.
“Go,” she told him, turning 442 to one side. “I’m depending on you.” A soft touch at 442’s AI brain and she sent him on his way.
The little robot sped off, tank treads clattering against the composite metal decking as he followed the corridor to the T at one end, took the left turning, and another left at the next intersection.
Serengeti went with him, splitting her consciousness so part of her could watch the corridors slip by through 442’s eyes while the rest of her mind tracked the progress of the other robots, listening to their chatter on the robot comms line as they scooped up human survivors and delivered them to the lifeboat nestled in her belly.
Finally, she thought. Something going right.
442’s path intersected with Henricksen at the next turning. The captain strode along, eyes focused on the end of the hall, so intent on where he was headed that he didn’t see the little TIG until he almost stepped on him. He pulled up at the last moment, frowning hard at 442 as he peeled the makeshift filter from his face. The air was cleaner here and he didn’t really need it, but he held onto it, just in case.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, stuffing the bit of cloth into his pocket. “Where’s—oof!” Henricksen stumbled a step or two as Finlay bumped into his back. “Watch where you’re going, Finlay,” he growled, looking back over his shoulder. “You can take that off, by the way.” He flicked his fingers at the mask covering Finlay’s face. “Air’s not that bad here.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and then pressed the fire mask to her face, refusing to give it up just yet.
“Or you can keep it.” Henricksen shook his head and turned back to the robot. “So what’s the deal, little—?”
“Henricksen,” Serengeti said, speaking through the robot’s mouth.
Henricksen blinked in surprise as Serengeti’s voice came out of the TIG’s mouth. Well, speaker. Strictly speaking, TIG didn’t really have a mouth.
“Follow,” Serengeti told him.
“Appreciate the offer, but we don’t need a tour guide, Serengeti. I can find my way perfectly well.”
“The way ahead is blocked. You can’t go through.”
“Great. Just fucking great.” Henricksen sighed and hitched at his broken arm “So what do we do now?”
“Follow the robot.” She flashed 442’s face lights. “TIG-442 will show you where to go.”
“And the others? There’s crew out there, Serengeti. I’m not abandoning them.”
“Nor I. I’ve got the robots looking for them. They’re scouring the intact compartments even as we speak, bringing anyone they find to the lifeboat. Trust me, Henricksen. After all we’ve been through, trust me in this.”
Henricksen eyed the robot suspiciously, thinking that over. “Trailblazer, eh? Fine. Lead on, MacDuff.”
442 beeped loudly and raised one leg, snapping off a sharp salute. He spun around and trundled off down a side corridor, but he stopped again when Serengeti touched at his AI brain.
Henricksen stopped with them, grimacing in pain as he cradled his broken arm, but Finlay…Finlay stared after them from the intersection, making no move to follow.
“Finlay,” Serengeti called, turning 442 around. “This way, Finlay. It’s safe.”
Finlay blinked and stared back at her, looking lost and alone.
“Get over here, Finlay.” Henricksen waved impatiently but Finlay just shook her head. “Dammit, Finlay! We don't have time for this!”
The emergency lights flickered, as if to emphasize his point. Serengeti shunted power from the compartments the robots had cleared and used it to steady the lights in the sections in front of them. “I’ve diverted power to this section to keep things going. That should give us a few minutes, but we need to hurry, Henricksen.”
“I was hurrying,” he growled, giving Serengeti and her robot a dark look. “Unfortunately, Finlay there doesn’t seem to share your sense of urgency.”
The power surged again, emergencies lights dimming, then brightening before settling into a dull red glow.
“Dammit, Finlay! Get a move in, already!”
Finlay flinched as the lights flickered, but stubbornly refused to move even a single step from where she stood. Another flicker and she wrapped her arms around her middle and hunkered down, seeking safety in the closeness of the floor.
The air handlers died, huffing out one last chuffing wheeze before giving up the ghost.
Henricksen tilted his head back, staring at a vent in ceiling. He raised his good arm, reaching for the vent with his fingers splayed wide, and swore softly as he found nothing coming out. “Life support?” he asked, pitching his voice low so Finlay wouldn’t hear.
“Gone. Entire system,” Serengeti answered just as softly.
“Right.” Henricksen sighed and shifted, clutching at his broken arm, face white with pain. “Can you fix it?”
Ridiculous question. Serengeti stared at Henricksen in disbelief. He hasn’t given up yet, she realized. After everything that’s happened, Henricksen still thinks he can save me.
She loved him for that. That’s why he had to go.
“No,” she said. “Maybe,” she amended at Henricksen’s frown. “But it’ll take a while. More time than you have. And even then I couldn’t guarantee that it would keep working. You’ve got the heat and air the system pumped out before it died, Henricksen. That’s it.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
“You need to go, Henricksen. Now!” she said urgently.
Henricksen locked eyes with 442, staring through the robot’s optical sensors to where Serengeti’s consciousness sat inside his brain. And then he turned on his heel and stalked over toward Finlay.
“Let’s go,” he barked in his best commander’s voice.
Wrong approach for the situation. Serengeti knew it as soon as the words left Henricksen’s mouth.
Finlay took a long step backward, shaking her head as she retreated from captain, shaking her head. That pissed Henricksen off.
“Finlay! Now!” He reached for her, thinking to drag Finlay with him along, but she skipped away from his reaching fingers, retreating again.
“Let me,” Serengeti interrupted, rolling 442 between them. She waited until Henricksen nodded before turning toward Finlay. “Finlay,” she called, cre
eping closer, holding up one of 442’s legs. “Take my hand, Finlay.”
Leg. Whatever.
Finlay stared at the leg end 442 offered, considering the appendage for a long, long time. A deep breath and she took a step forward, fingers reaching, wrapping around the TIG’s leg.
Good girl.
“Time to go, Finlay,” Serengeti said softly. She turned around and started to lead Finlay away. “Time for you and the rest of the crew to see the stars while I stay here and rest awhile.”
Finlay slowed, a frown of concern creasing her brow. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry,” Serengeti told her. “I’ve got 442 to keep me company. He and the other TIGs and TSDs.”
Finlay thought that over too, and nodded just once.
“Come now, Finlay. We have to hurry.”
Another nod. Finlay stared at the robot’s face, mesmerized by the swirling patterns that blossomed and died and blossomed again.
Serengeti rolled past Henricksen, holding tight to Finlay’s hand, waved for him to follow as she and TIG-442 led Finlay away.
THIRTEEN
Round and round the ship Serengeti and her charges wound, following one corridor and another, using the ladderways to descend to the lower levels because there simply wasn’t enough power to run the elevators. Henricksen slowed them there, his broken arm all but useless, making it difficult for him to navigate the ladderways. Not his fault, but the delay made a long journey all that much longer. The lifeboat sat at the center of her, a massive thing with its own docking area cutting through four full layers of her ship’s body, with the entrance to it—the only door providing access the escape pod—lying on Level Six, a long, long way from Level Ten and the Bridge.
Henricksen stepped from the ladderway into the central corridor running the length of Level Six and hunched over, face tight with pain, panting for breath in the increasingly thin air.
“Almost there,” Serengeti told him as Finlay let go of the ladder.
Henricksen nodded sucked in a breath, straightening up. He wobbled a bit, hand pressing against the wall to steady himself until he caught his balance. “’M’alright,” he said as the TIG’s face lights flashed in concern. “Keep going.”
“Stay with 442. Hurry, Henricksen. Fast as you can.”
Another nod as Henricksen waved the TIG forward.
Serengeti nudged at 442 sending him trundling down the corridor to scout the way ahead. She split her consciousness, watching the way ahead through the TIG’s eyes while tracking Henricksen and Finlay through the camera in the little robot’s thorax. For a while, they made good time. And then something caught her attention—a sudden, high-pitched hiss—causing her to bring 442 to a clattering halt.
“What’s going on?” Henricksen gasped, stopping beside the little TIG.
“Not sure,” Serengeti started to say, and then realized just a fraction of a second too late that she did. “A puncture,” she breathed as the hissing sound grew. “We’ve got a puncture nearby, Henricksen!”
The hissing increased and changed tone, becoming a screaming shriek. Shortly thereafter came a heavy, ominous whump—the sound of depressurization as something exploded inside her, rocking the ship violently.
The hallway tilted as Serengeti’s body bucked hard. 442 skidded a bit and then stopped himself, being more stable with his grippy tank treads, his body slung low to the ground. Henricksen tumbled across the corridor and slammed bodily against the far wall, broken arm connecting first, the rest of his one hundred and eighty pound frame piling on afterward. And then Finlay slammed into the back of him, smashing Henricksen’s broken arm into the wall a second time.
Finlay rebounded and sat down hard on the floor. Henricksen dropped to his knees, head bowed, broken arm cradled against his stomach, face white as sheet, blood and sweat mingling trickling down his neck.
“Henricksen?” Serengeti called worriedly.
Henricksen clenched his teeth, giving a sharp shake of his head. Blood dripped from his temple, falling in fat drops to the deck plating.
Serengeti rolled 442 across the hall, reaching for Henricksen with the robot’s two front legs, but the captain snarled and pushed them angrily away.
“Henricksen—”
Henricksen cut her off with a chop of his hand.
“We have to go, Henricksen.”
“I know,” he panted. He turned his head and looked at her with glassy, pain-filled eyes. “Don’t you think I know?”
He’s in trouble, Serengeti thought, watching blood ooze in thick streams down the side of his face.
“I know you’re hurting, but we have to get going,” Serengeti said quietly.
Henricksen closed his eyes, swearing softly under his breath. He took a moment to gather himself, planting his hand against the floor, clutching his broken arm tight to his stomach as he pushed himself to his feet. He got there, and then almost pitched right over. He stumbled against the wall, managing to turn himself this time and connect with his good shoulder, but the impact left him rattled—grey-faced and panting, unsteady on his feet.
Finlay stared up at him, wide eyes blinking slowly behind the fire mask she still refused to discard. Henricksen’s legs bent, knees unhinging as he slipped toward the floor, but Finlay scurried to her feet and braced him up, slinging her slim arm around his middle, settling Henricksen’s far-more muscular limb around her shoulders. “Got you, Captain. I’ve got you,” she said, holding him on his feet.
Henricksen looked down at her and nodded vaguely. A deep breath and he shook himself, trying to clear the cobwebs away, but it took a while—nearly a minute, time they really didn’t have—for him to finally get himself together enough that they could get moving again. He pushed away from the wall, and tottered around, curses falling like raindrops from his lips as set off down the hall.
Finlay stuck close to her captain’s side, arm wrapped around his waist, one hand clutching the fingers dangling over her shoulder, giving Henricksen what support she could as he made his slow, painful way down the corridor.
Serengeti scooted 442 ahead of them, riding passenger inside the little robot, murmuring words of encouragement to speed Henricksen and Finlay along, telling them nothing of the cascading failures occurring all over the ship, major and minor systems shutting down, taking the sub-minds assigned to each with them.
A desperate burst of information flooded in before the last of the sub-minds went silent. For the first time since her creation, Serengeti found her mind alone. She’d never known such emptiness. Never imagined how echoing and isolated a single mind could feel.
Focus, Serengeti. It’s almost over. Not long now.
An error appeared—one of the last few working nodes of her network starting to act. Serengeti cleared it and checked her energy levels, which continued to fall. Just a bare trickle left in her reserves now, enough to keep her core consciousness running and power the emergency lights in this one corridor, but not much else.
And soon that will be gone as well, Serengeti thought, watching Henricksen struggle along.
Not enough power. Not enough time.
“Hurry,” Serengeti urged him for the dozenth time.
Henricksen lifted his head with an effort, staring at her with shadowed eyes, looking just about done in. A stiff nod and he pushed harder, shambling along the hallway with Finlay propping him up on one side.
That last leg of their journey seemed to take forever—an eternity of time at Henricksen’s slow, limping pace—but they eventually got there. 442 scooted around a bend and into another, much shorter corridor with a door barring the far end. A door with a single word written in blocky black letters across its metal surface.
“Cryo,” Serengeti breathed, voice filled with relief.
The lifeboat, at last, just a foot-thick portal of steel, and titanium, and densely packed electronics separating her charges from salvation.
Cryo showed none of the damage ravaging the rest of Serengeti’s body. Her own ship’
s designed protected it, tucking it deep inside her, far away from her engines and munitions, the outer sections of her hull. And Cryo came equipped with its own power grid, completely separate from hers, its own engines and Nav system—everything Henricksen and her surviving crew would need to survive the trip through the stars.
Unfortunately, all that protection blocked Cryo’s comms. Too much composite metal. Too much of Serengeti’s body getting in the way. Which meant the crew would have to leave her to get help. The crew would have to head out on their own.
I wish I could go with them. Selfish thought, rising unbidden as they stopped in front of Cryo’s door. I wish I could protect them out there.
But that wasn’t in the cards. Fifty-three years of combat, hundreds of battles and four wrecked chassis, but somehow she’d always managed to limp home. Until this time. This time the crew would go on without her, leaving Serengeti and her shredded body behind. Because one thing Cryo didn’t have was an AI docking port, which meant it couldn’t support her downloaded consciousness. The only way for Serengeti to go with her crew was if they cut her crystal matrix mind from its housing and physically transported it with them.
Not an easy operation. Not something Henricksen and his crew were in a position to carry out. There simply wasn’t enough time, wasn’t enough energy to get Serengeti out.
She touched at 442, had him drop back to Henricksen’s side, pressed the end of his metal leg against Henricksen’s back to push him along.
But I can save them, she thought. Henricksen and the others. I can at least get them out.
The emergency lights flickered, flashing spasmodically as they struggled to remain lit. Serengeti shoved at Henricksen, pressing 442’s leg hard against his back. “Time to go,” she said, nodding the robot’s rounded head at Cryo’s sealed door.
Henricksen frowned down at her, swaying a bit, looking like he might fall over at any moment. Finlay pressed against his side, holding him up, masked eyes flicking worriedly from her captain to the lifeboat’s door.
Serengeti Page 13
