The hanging spider-bot suddenly turned frenetic, its long-limbed metallic articulators scrambling across the terminals. It had been left all alone on a world long ago.
And then the madness.
Bots needed lifeforms to tell them what to do. Otherwise bots could get up to some serious trouble biologics had no idea of. The Utarri spider-bot had seen that. Had been there when they all went collectively mad and made the thing that should not be made.
But that was another story.
“Oh, good galaxy. Well thank you,” said G232 once it had the clearance codes and was assured the Obsidian Crow could now depart Detron.
* * *
The little Nubarian bot reached the surface of the Docks and promptly entered the marine Green Zone without notice. Military installations were usually smart enough to stop machines from coming in at their leisure, but this didn’t worry the little machine. Tyrus Rechs had given it falsified credentials, meaning that to the surrounding marines, it would be considered one of their own machines.
Rolling along and whistling, it made its way past the dropships loaded with weapons-laden marines, racks of AGM missiles, and hullbusters with crowd-suppression blasters hanging off the stubby wings. Turbines howled and repulsors throbbed to life as the transports crawled skyward, blasting the dented and battle-scarred bot with grit and heat.
The little bot loved it.
It was back in its element. Among the troops and on a secret mission. It hummed a popular tune from an old streaming show about an intergalactic spy who was sly and debonair and incredibly violent.
The bot loved the violent parts of that show. If it had to be a biologic, being the spy wouldn’t have been so bad. He sure did meet a lot of pretty alien girls. The little bot had a weakness for biologic females it couldn’t explain. Call it a glitch that developed in its programming, but if a pretty Endurian were to ask it to, say, rob a bank, or even blow up a planet, it would probably do it. It couldn’t explain why. It just would.
Shortly the little humming bot passed deeper into the Green Zone, passing the security and command structures the marines had erected from the prefab combat zone housing, turning the entire area into a high-tech feudal castle. Again, none of the hardy young marines, sleeves rolled up and sporting all kinds of wonderfully fatalistic tattoos, paid the bot any mind. That it was rolling through without triggering any alarms that scanned all on-base bots for their clearances meant there was no need.
The little Nubarian gunnery bot would love to get a tattoo and daydreamed about what it would say.
End of Runtime before Dishonor.
Kill them all and let the Designers sort them out.
Born to Delete.
The storage yards came next, a vast canyon of stacked supplies the marines had brought along to help them put pain to the Soshies rioting in the streets. The bot hoped a full-scale hippie-stomping was coming and it would get to see the more violent parts of it up close. Maybe get the opportunity to roll over a few Soshies while they were down.
And perhaps it would.
It rolled out from the supply canyons and spotted what the marines called the motor pool. Rows of ground vehicles to replace those that had broken down during operations were waiting to be brought forward. A few mechanics wandered the neat rows, performing primary maintenance tasks. Prominent among these vehicles were three spectacular main battle tanks, waiting patiently for use. Marine high command had been forbidden from introducing the formidable war machines into the student riot for fear they would “send the wrong message.”
“You’re damn right!” General Sheehan had roared around his clamped cigar. “The message will be get out of the way, you damned Soshies, or we’ll squash you like bugs. Nothing like the healthy fear of getting flattened to realign perspectives. Ask any infantryman.”
There were just three, but the little Nubarian gunnery bot thought they were all just beautiful. The bot took a moment to digitally moan in wonder at all the destruction they would enable.
Then it rolled forward to the nearest HK-PP mech and prepared for the next phase of its mission.
45
Rechs smashed through the old tile floor just above the pipe he was crawling through. Prior to that, he’d cut the pipe with a single-use disposable plate-cutter he carried on his utility belt. Then he looked up into the darkness, waiting there for a long moment, letting the armor’s sensors feel for life forms and movements, interfacing with enhanced audio detection to provide some kind of picture of the subbasement above.
There was movement in the areas farther above him, but nothing down here. And why would there be? The pros had an entire once-luxe apartment building to themselves. They weren’t expecting anyone to come through the suck Rechs had just crawled through.
Rechs discarded the plate-cutter and pulled the tiny Jackknife blaster from his tac bag. Then he fired one of his gauntleted fists forward and smashed the cement and tile floor where it was thinnest. Near what looked to have once been some basement gym shower area. Dusty old concrete broke easily. Tile ruptured. Rechs waited, listening through the sensor detection equipment to see if anyone would respond to the noise of his demolitions. Nothing. He smashed his armored fist into the floor above three more times, like a jackhammer breaking up a road, and breached the floor above his head.
He waited.
Still no response.
He began pulling the shattered concrete down into the dark with him, working it loose in sections until he had enough of a gap to climb through. Low-light imaging showed him the planet’s version of roaches, something like a centipede with horns, scurrying away into the darkness of the showers he was coming up into.
He followed the front sight of the Jackknife blaster up onto the floor of the shower and remained there in a crouch,
