First of all, he feared nothing. None of the forces arrayed against him could stop him. The AutoCat and her guns were a threat, but he was far too fast to ever take a hit from them. Furthermore, his combat AI seemed to be thriving on emotional input from his new subroutines. He was moving and fighting in a whole new manner, his strategies and techniques un-coupled from ruthless logic and rigid decision trees. He hated to acknowledge the fact, but Tankowicz had been right about him. Bob could execute every fighting technique ever conceived, though he had never truly understood how to fight. The ebb and flow of combat was not something one could know, rather it had to be felt to be understood. Now he understood why the Golems had been such a formidable product. Experienced and talented warriors bonded to armored bodies that did not replace what they were, rather the armatures enhanced what was already an effective fighting machine. The soldier was the real weapon, not the machine. This defied all rational explanation, and as Bob learned to release his grip upon the purely rational, he at last began to comprehend his biological cousins.
Logic told him he needed to manage Christopher Pike if he intended to eliminate the AutoCat. The mercenary leader was a brilliant tactician, and this was evidenced by the methodical manner in which Bob’s attacks were being suppressed by an eighty-year-old man with a grenade launcher and some augmentations. The old Bob would have re-oriented and dealt with that threat before resuming offense against the armature. However, the new Bob had a sinking feeling that this was exactly what Pike wanted. He had no hard data to support this, merely a whispered warning from a low-tier predictive engine running battle scenarios. It had returned nothing solid, yet the insignificant bit of software refused to stop looking for the answer. This nagging bit of feedback would have normally been ignored until it returned a useful result. For reasons Bob now understood to be purely emotional, he decided to heed the warning, anyway.
Risking a direct hit from one of Pike’s grenades, Bob accelerated to his top speed and leapt the remaining fifty feet between himself and Bernadette Rothschilde. The big yellow machine’s cannons poured fire into a wounded Better Man as Bob attacked, and she never noticed his headlong flight. He struck her in the back and clung to her power cell housing like a furious limpet. Slapping a mine to the juncture where the power cell met the main chassis, he then kicked free of her to sail away. A grenade from Pike met his landing and hurled the android across the deck, but not before his mine went off.
If the power cell of an AutoCat 4900 lost containment, the resulting blast would have sufficient energy to kill everything in the cargo bay except Bob. This had been Bob’s plan, and if not for the exemplary work of Pike’s armorers, this is exactly what would have happened. The mine lacked the required payload to crack the reinforced power cell housing, though the thunderous detonation severed several important connections.
A geyser of hot gas billowed from the armature’s back and coruscating blue arcs danced along the entire shuddering chassis. Bernie’s scream filled the team comm channel and deteriorated abruptly into electronic static. The great yellow machine took two ataxic steps and slumped, smoke pouring from the power cell and alarms wailing. Then it moved no more.
Bob had never experienced anything like the rush of pure joy that suffused his personality matrix in that instant. The waves of feedback across his neural architecture supported and magnified each other, building to a heady torrent of pure electric pleasure at his success. He did not know how to laugh, but he brayed a harsh and inhuman war cry as he rose again to rejoin the battle.
Sven Paulsen ruined the moment, replacing the hungry conflagration of his newfound bloodlust with a quenching deluge of fear once again.
“Bob, you dipshit! Breach is out. I repeat, Breach is free!”
Bob did not respond directly. He whirled from the fight in the cargo bay and sprinted away from the broken AutoCat and the din of a pitched battle.
Paulsen’s voice was insistent. “Where the fuck are you?”
“I know where he will go. Meet me at the database. Task the remaining Better Man androids to protect those servers. Use the rest of your men to hold the cargo bay. Prepare to get underway.”
“You want to drag the fight into deep space?”
No one had taught Bob to snarl, though what came from his mouth was unmistakably savage. “I want them all to die somewhere no one will ever find them.”
Paulsen sounded like he approved of this. “Okay, then. You got three of your creepy ‘bots heading to the database. I’m already nearby so I can cover. The rest of the crew will hold the cargo bay.”
“Excellent.”
“This is gonna cost extra, Bob.”
“Money will not be an issue, Paulsen.”
“That’s what I like to hear. See you in two minutes. Paulsen out.”
Bob did not see the look of unvarnished irritation on Sven’s face when the mercenary signed off. From the ops center the wiry mercenary had been supervising the loading of the database and repelling boarders. He had already surmised Pike’s force was too small to take his ship and all its crew, but he did not trust his professional rival not to have any number of tricks up his sleeve. Pike did nothing without a good reason. If Pike was attacking, there was a purpose, a stratagem, or a trick. Once the brig guards had gone silent and his sensors detected the unique biometrics of Roland Tankowicz, Paulie deduced what the real ploy had been.
He turned to his comms officer. “Looks like Tank’s little crew of helpers got him out. We got to secure the database so we still get paid. Whatever that bunch of computers is can’t be worth dying over, right? They gotta know they can’t take us all so I’m guessing Tank and Pike are going to want to exfil fast no matter what happens with the stupid database. Bob can fuck right off because I ain’t all that interested in stopping them if they want to leave. If Bob wants Tankowicz alive, he can capture the prick again all by himself. It ain’t worth getting killed over.” He paused, and figured there was a strong chance he might regret what he said next. He said it anyway. “But I got one loose end I want to get tied up before this is all over and we are rich as goddamn sultans. Where is the big bastard now?”
“Looks like he’s moving fore on deck six, sir.”
“Heading back to the database and their boarding craft, no doubt. Good. That’ll take them right by me. I’ll cut ‘em off between the cargo and their escape route.”
The comms officer looked askance. “Are you going to take him on, cap’n?”
“Hell no. But there is a little blond bitch who is owed an ass-kicking, and she ain’t gonna be far from him. Send the last three of those white fuckers down to the database. Let’s give them a convincing fight.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Paulie grabbed his gun belt from where he had left it on the console beside him. He checked his magazines, charged his pistols, and secured his largest vibroblade to the left side of his chest with the pommel down. He left the ops center at a brisk trot and then stretched out into a loping jog that ate the distance between himself and his destination like a hungry shark. He figured Tank and his team would be moving slow. They would need to check and clear each corridor, sweep each corner, and put down any resistance they found. Paulie had no such obstacles to overcome. His run took him well ahead of his quarry and he slid into a chase next to a lift. Sliding down the vertical rails of the ladder running alongside the elevator shaft, the mercenary leader came to a stop at deck six. He punched up Tank’s location and saw that the big fixer was still plodding toward the database and smiled. He had no illusions about his ability to fight it out with Tankowicz, in all truth he did not care to make the attempt. With any luck, those androids would soften them up enough for Paulie to take his crack at Mindy. Settling in to wait, Paulie ensured his pistols were loaded with penetrators. It would not do to have Mindy’s armor stop the one or two shots he was likely to get off, and he was not confident his opportunity would last long enough for much more than that. He would need to strike at the perfect moment. T
iming would be critical, though this did not bother him. He had always had excellent timing.
Mindy had beaten him the last time because he had fought her like a mercenary. Head on and without subtlety. She had bested him at his own game and this stung Paulie’s pride more than a prudent man would ever admit. This time he was going to beat the little killer at her game. Paulie was not going to fight Mindy. He was going to assassinate her.
It was a grim and committed Sven Paulsen who settled into his dark and narrow hiding spot. Yet it was a satisfied one as well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Roland and Lucia, a dozen Privateers in tow, fought a brisk and efficient path to what they now understood to be Arthur Inskip. Pike acknowledged that Bob had broken off and was in pursuit, and convinced Roland that what remained of the Varsity Squad could hold the cargo bay a little while longer.
“Do what you gotta in the next twenty minutes or so, Breach,” the commandant had warned. “But that’s all I can give ya!”
“We’ll get out on Lucia’s shuttle,” Roland acknowledged. “Fall back whenever you need to.”
“Copy that. Don’t get captured again, it's embarrassing for all of us.”
Paulsen’s mercenaries put up a spirited resistance, but the pirates were outclassed by Roland’s armor and the skills of Pike’s crew. Patton’s drones took the worst of it, and he was down to two before they reached their goal. As the floating machines rounded the last corner, Patton’s HUD registered the presence of three Better Man androids just before the alabaster giants brought them down with precise bead fire from large rifles.
“Shit!” the Reject cursed loud. “There goes the last two drones. Pike’s gonna have my ass. Anyway, three big white Tangos waiting, ma’am.”
Winner was extremely quick on the uptake and sent four large grenades pinging off the walls and toward the new opposition. While the devices kept the androids busy, Roland started giving orders.
“I’ll go first,” he volunteered and began to shoulder his way past the others. “Sweep up after!”
“The hell you will,” Lucia barked and yanked Roland’s wrist to stop him. “Bubba! That Longbow ready?”
“Charged, ma’am.”
“Bloody Mary, go with Bubba. He’s going to shoot one in the crotch, I want you to hit another in the hip or knee. Roland, you can take the third.”
“Why the crotch?” Bubba asked.
“Because your aim is crap, and when you miss you’ll probably hit one of his hips,” Mary snorted.
Bubba bobbed his head. “That’s fair.”
Lucia went on. “The rest of you, pour hell into the two wounded ones while Roland beats his to death, got it?”
“Roger,” the team replied.
Roland spun the blank gaze of his death’s head mask on Lucia. “You’re really taking to this command stuff, huh?”
“Once I realized that management is the same everywhere, it all kind of clicked,” she replied with a smile. “Instead of marketing executives, I’m directing homicidal maniacs.”
“Technically, Bubba is just an asshole,” Patton corrected her. “Mary is the homicidal maniac.”
“Back of the line, drone drover,” Mary spat, though humor softened the rebuke. “The real soldiers have work to do.”
“Tango’s coming!” Winner called, bringing the group back to business.
“Go!” Lucia yelled.
Bubba stepped out into the corridor and true to his nature, ignored all tactical considerations. He stood like a suicidal monolith before the charge of three towering white androids with the grip of his Dylan Longbow firmly in his right hand. His harness supported the weight of the weapon and would prevent the prodigious recoil from forcing him backward, but this made precision aiming difficult. He squeezed off the first round when his target was less than thirty yards away, taking several direct hits from the android’s rifle in the process. Bubba’s aim was as good as his foe’s, and his railgun drove a spike into and through the right groin muscle of the charging android. Both fighters went down with respective crashes.
Mary dodged Bubba’s descending bulk and snapped off her own shot a quarter of a second later. The twenty-millimeter flechette had much less power than Bubba’s railgun, but the custom penetrator round sank deeply into a second android’s knee. The metal dart lacked the energy to exit, though it sliced through the delicate tendons of the joint and lodged in its armored patella. The android tumbled when the knee stopped taking its weight. The third android did not open fire until its brethren had fallen and given it a clear shooting lane. Unfortunately for the remaining Better Man, the only viable target was the looming mass of Roland Tankowicz. Not recognizing the futility of the gesture, the android let loose a long rip of full-auto gunfire that created a truly impressive display of sparks, smoke, and ceramic shrapnel. A snarling Tankowicz ignored it all and fell upon the white monster like a maddened gorilla.
Roland knew that Durendal could not harm a Better Man armature. It would be fair to speculate that his headlong flight into hand-to-hand combat was a product of swift and accurate tactical decision-making. This, however, would not be accurate. His brain suffused with stimulants and adrenaline, his temper soured by captivity, and the future of his home and family threatened by a foe so overwhelming there did not exist a meaningful method of expressing it, Roland Martin Tankowicz found himself well within the grips of a fury so complete it threatened his very sanity. His first blow, an overhand right that connected with the chest of his target, sent lances of force-feedback all the way from his knuckles, through his arm, down his spine, past his legs and into his toes. The sound of it rang the walls of the corridor like a gong and drew yelps of confused pain from anyone not wearing ear protection. With all his safety protocols still locked out, Roland could not feel this impact as the dull negative stimulus his chassis used for pain signals, and he supposed that was probably a good thing. He could tell the instant his fist made contact that he had hit the stupid robot way too damn hard. Even if he remained oblivious, a few angry notifications in his HUD informed him that the punch had been only a few newtons shy of fracturing his wrist.
As ill-advised as such a blow may have been, it serviced the target in a manner the big man found most satisfying. The Better Man’s feet left the deck and it flew backward as if shot from a cannon. The ivory body struck the bulkhead twenty yards down the corridor. The wall capitulated to the prodigious forces arrayed against it and collapsed on top of the downed machine. The high-tech monster thrashed beneath the obscuring cocoon of fallen ceiling panels. Not wanting to waste his opportunity, Roland sprinted after the flying android and met it where it lay in a tangled heap of limbs and ship parts. Roland kicked it hard enough to lift it into the air again. It rose until the ceiling arrested its ascent and sent the hapless mannequin back to the deck and once again into the tender mercies of a bionic super-soldier in the throes of volcanic berserkergang.
The android surged upward, its bland combat AI unaware of exactly how badly Roland Tankowicz wanted it to do just that. Alabaster hands quested for Roland’s onyx neck, only to be swept aside like so many rushes in a stiff breeze. Roland took the android low in the gut with his shoulder, wrapping arms like steel bands around its waist. Then he lifted, leapt, turned, and slammed the thing into the deck plates with all the fury of an aerocar crash. The floor buckled, the twin titans leaving a wide crater in the metal. Roland did not care if the deck collapsed beneath them or not, he wanted to punch the thing, and so he did. Over and over, dozens of savage horrible collisions of fist and faceplate shook the ship and warped the clean symmetry of the android’s featureless skull into an unrecognizable elephantine mess. Satisfied with the punching yet still furious, Roland grabbed that head in both hands, placed a boot on his doomed foe’s wide chest, and pulled.
With a groan and the sick audible popping of snapping cables, the android’s neck stretched to a grotesque length. The arms flailed and the body heaved, yet the growling old soldier refused to let
go. Roland twisted, first a ruthless yank to the left, then a brutal wrench to the right. Back and forth he worked at his task until a crack like a dry limb breaking off from a tree cut through the noise of the battle. At last defeated, the android’s head tore free of the body with a spray of silver gel and the screech of failing electronics.
Roland finally looked up from his gory success to see the rest of the squad doing yeoman’s work finishing off the other two androids. Bubba was back in the fight, though he appeared much the worse for wear in his blood-soaked armor. He was working his vibroblade through the neck of a downed android that looked as if its arms and legs had been perforated with a hundred of Mary’s penetrators. She continued to shoot its limbs as the big man sawed on the twitching android. Patton and Winston had joined the rest of the squad in peppering the final enemy with grenades and armor-piercing ordnance while the others finished.
Soon, there remained nothing left of the three androids but the smoking husks of their ruined bodies. The corridor had been reduced to scorched shambles, the bulkheads riddled with smoking holes. Long angry gouges traced the path of the various fights that had taken place, and a thick haze of gun smoke and burning electronics turned the familiar shapes of the mercenaries into indistinct silhouettes as they checked weapons and tended to the wounded.
“Who’s hit?” he asked.
Winston called it. “Bubba took most of it, because that’s what he does.”
“I can relate,” Roland grumbled.
Winston continued. “We got a couple nasty hits and some ugly scratches on the others.”
Roland could see the front of Riley’s armor soaked in blood. He pointed to the oozing mess and asked, “How bad?” The big gunner was seated upright against the wall, looking pale but otherwise fine. He heard Roland’s question and replied with a feral sneer. “I’m still in the fight, pal.”
Winston gave his oversized squaddie a sharp look. “The hell you are, dumbass.” Then he looked back to Roland. “You can never tell with him. The dumb bastard gets shot so damn much you stop worrying about it after a while. The hits mostly shattered his armor and drove about a jillion pieces of plate into his chest. Gonna be a long stint in sickbay just to pull ‘em all out. He’s down quite a bit of blood, but the bleeding is under control right now and his lungs look fine. He’s augmented all to hell, so as long as we keep him out of the action, he’ll probably live.”
Head Space Page 30
