Per the plan, George rode the hover bike straight up to the communications tower. He waited near the bike 10 meters from the large entrance, the tower reaching high into the blue sky above. He stood there holding his extra-heavy helmet with a smile on his face, trying to seem as human as possible: sloppy grin, slouchy posture, and remembering to fidget constantly.
And sure enough his adversary emerged from the metal sliding door at the base of the tower. George had never seen a BG warrior up close. It was taller, longer and appeared much stronger than he had imagined. And if he was capable of fear, which he wasn't, he reminded himself, he should be feeling it right about then. He wondered if that particular sensation would come. He waited for it. There should be a buckling of the knees at this point, a shortness of breath, palpitations, something. And then he realized he was standing perfectly still again and so he initiated a bit of random knee movements, then scratched his elbow and widened his eyes, titled his head, half smile. Careless. Oblivious. Human.
"This area is restricted," said the giant black mechanical being in front of him. His voice an electric hiss.
George had to look up at the giant, right into the sunlight to reply. His eyes adjusted immediately, but he put his hand over his eyes like a visor, blinking the whole time, just like humans do. "Quite right. Quite right. I seem to be a bit lost. Here, catch this," George said, tossing his helmet to the warrior.
Instinctively the warrior grabbed the helmet with both of his alacyte claws and at the same time George dove backwards face down into the dirt and there was a large explosion. And if he was supposed to feel burned, he should have, right at that moment. 7.84% of back and neck area have suffered minor burn damage, his internal sensors read. 27% hearing loss. 97.4% efficiency. He was good to go but made a mental note to tell the Greeleys next time they make a helmet bomb to consider less explosive. Now all he had to do was set the charges. The difficult part was done. He wondered at how foolish the BG were to have only one warrior guarding the tower.
He stood up and dusted himself off, lifted the canvas cover off the charges and then heard the door open again.
He turned, still holding the canvas like a child’s blanket as another warrior stepped out of the tower, right on top of the smoking, charred remains of the previous one. The head had rolled to a stop 20 meters off to the side, the arms and legs had become detached and the still smoking alacyte chest plate lay in the dirt, a large crack running along the side. Maybe the explosive amount was correct, he thought to himself.
He looked up at the thing in front of him, like a smaller, blacker tower, he thought, its tiny gears and actuators whirring. 7.8% chance of survival. He couldn’t help it, the data just came to him. And now he was supposed to sigh, because his chances were slim and he only had the one helmet bomb and now was armed with a piece of cloth. So he let out a long breath of air and slumped his shoulders. It was the anatomically correct thing to do at that particular moment. This was the end. I hope Mr. Marco misses me, he thought.
The black creature’s long stick was lit up on both ends, glowing bright red even in the full light of day. The mechanical thing raised up the weapon, said, “Die, tiny human!”
He said, Human, thought George. A wonderful complement it would have been in any other circumstance. But here, on the sand, in the full sun, mechanical being vs. synthetic life form created on Vellos: it was an insult. And George felt a tang of the one emotion he could almost feel: anger. It was a tightening of his being, when the calculations did not come as quickly but his reaction time improved greatly.
The end of the energy weapon made an arc in the sky and swept back down to cut the little person in half, but George was no human. He jumped straight up as the electric blade swooshed under him, the creature’s large, metal head still aimed down. George kicked the middle of the pole and covered the large metal head with the canvas.
He landed on his feet behind the black, mechanical worm.
Chance of survival 9.4%. Hmmm, an improvement, thought George. The BG warrior struggled to remove the canvas that was blocking his vision and George had one thought: run. His first instinct was to sprint straight away from the tower but then realized that would be folly, there was no cover, and he had no weapon. At this point, even one of the crappy Federation energy weapons would have been useful. So instead of heading straight off into the sand to his death, he darted to the left and hid behind one of the giant tower pillars.
The black monster whirled around, reacquired its tiny target, and came down again with the energy weapon. George darted away and the BG’s weapon took a large chunk out of the steel pillar, which gave George an idea.
There were energy cells powering the tower, a row of three, four meters high, on the far side, so George made one final sprint and positioned
