And, he had to admit to himself, he had that trapped feeling sinking in his gut.
Now he could hear the metallic steps of a bot coming closer along the halls. In another direction he could hear small metallic skittering across the floor. And then the heavy tread of some machine. Not quite as heavy as the 103s at the front entrance. But similar. And that probably meant some other form of warbot that had been purchased and hidden down here to guard this fantastic and highly illegal collection.
“Who are you?” asked Bowie, his voice falling flat against the sound-deadening surfaces of the place.
“An irrelevant interrogative but one I will answer, nonetheless. My proper identifier is THK-Alpha Eight. You may not realize with whom you are dealing, but yes, if you know your history, I am indeed one of those.”
Bowie knew enough of history to know exactly what the bot meant by its identifier.
The Alpha Eight Series of THKs were the infamously homicidal psychological warfare specialists who’d started the Sayed Massacre of legend.
“So of course,” continued the bot, “you realize you have no chance against me. I have already killed directly in combat one thousand seven hundred and eighty-three humans—note that I say humans, like you, and am not counting other biologics in that sum. Indirectly, I am responsible for the death of four million humanoids, though most of those were accomplished when I deployed a tactical nuclear weapon against the refugee center on Sorrab Nine. Not my preferred weapon of warfare, but one I am nonetheless competent with. The rest of my kills were acquired through ship-to-ship combat where internal explosions, radiation leaks, and hull breaches were used to great effect. Some may argue that though it was I who fired the SSMs and led the bot strike teams, I should not take credit for the subsequent damage that killed so many crew. But I disagree. Though I am willing to accept debate on these numbers if you wish to spend your last moments arguing with me over them. I must warn you that I do have very compelling arguments.”
“Good for you,” muttered Bowie as he scanned the halls with the targeting scope of the EM blaster.
THKs were not to be trifled with. He’d never met one. But the rumors of the demise of others who had were enough to make one suddenly sober about what they intended to do. Still, it was old. Perhaps old enough that its systems might not be able to deal with Team Nilo’s new device.
Perhaps.
But then, what other chance do you have? he asked himself.
From down the hall a small blast door whooshed open like a guillotine retracting and a humanoid bot skinned in carbon black stepped through. The blast door sliced shut a second later and the bot canted its insectile head at Bowie, studying him for the half moment before it began shooting.
Bowie instinctively dove for cover.
“There’s no use in running,” reminded the THK as the bot advanced, laying down a sudden blue streak of fire where Bowie should have been. “You’re already quite dead. I can assure you of that, human.”
Bowie had slammed one gloved palm against a display room door access he landed in front of and flung himself through the door the second it opened. Blaster fire melted into the ceramic walls, and now he lay on the floor of the display room which housed another weird piece of Savage tech that looked like a telescope with tentacles.
Bowie had nowhere to go. There was no exit from the small room.
He got to one knee and aimed the EM blaster at the opening to the room just as the bot stepped into it. Squeezing once, the EM blaster spat out a series of powerful pulses that rocked the humanoid bot’s frame. Systems were scrambled, components offlined. Processors collapsed as the bot seemed to be physically struck by invisible jackhammer blows from the powerful weapon. Targeting spam washed across the room like mad ghosts revealing ancient holographic runes in bloody half-light. The blue holographic letters highlighting each display stretched and warped from the assault, blinking in static-filled binary and then returning to their set text.
It wasn’t enough to put the bot down. It regained its composure after a second and fired wildly. One shot struck Bowie in the thigh as he raced forward, dumping everything he had in the hopes of shutting his foe off. Knowing there was no other way than this.
Charging down that blind alley like that bull he’d sworn he would be.
Something searing and hot tore the flesh of his leg apart and he yelled ferociously as he closed to within striking range of the bot, refusing to fall. Willing himself to keep moving. He sent more blasts into the upper torso of the robotic thing. It did not die. It would not die.
The EM blaster failed and in one swift motion, never mind the fact that his leg felt like it was on fire, Jack Bowie grabbed its barrel and swung the weapon like a club at the bot’s processor node. The machine stumbled away, steadying itself along one pristine white ceramic wall as it tried to distance itself from the assault.
This is my only chance, thought Jack Bowie and lunged at it. Kicking it first with his good leg, roaring with pain as the other went out from under him.
The bot likewise sensed its own opportunity to regain momentum and in turn lunged for Bowie who was now lying on the floor, his battered leg finally having failed him. The machine pounced like a lunatic nightmare out of the nether of the galaxy, firing its primary weapons as it did so. But all of them missed Bowie.
The kill would be close, then. And now the metallic monster was on top of him and as Jack struggled he was wondered where the skittering he attributed to some kind of mechanical
