The impostor had saved Ōbhin’s life.
Gripping the automaton’s fist, Bran pivoted. In a feat of strength that should be beyond what any human being could accomplish, Bran heaved the automaton over his shoulder. The impostor’s legs snapped from the weight placed on them. Bone shards speared out through his trousers. He collapsed beneath the bulk of the crystalman but finished his swing.
As Ōbhin scrambled to gain his balance, the automaton crashed to the ground right on his trap. The stone shattered into four triangular slabs. The crystalman rang as its hands struggled to purchase on the edge before it plunged down into the carriage house in a resounding crash. Fragments of amethyst and chunks of black stone burst in all directions, pinging against rusting carriages.
The thing posing as Bran collapsed to the ground in a cry of pain, legs bent the wrong way in three or four spots. Behind Ōbhin, the other crystalmen advanced. A boil of confused emotions beset Ōbhin—shock, rage, fear, more—but he didn’t have time to process them.
The crystalman threw its punch.
Ōbhin’s feet found purchase. He threw out a desperate parry with his tulwar. He struck the automaton’s inner wrist with his resonance blade with a hard slash. The energy of his deflecting attack was just enough to knock the fist a fraction off-target. Ōbhin’s training to dodge severed weapons gave him the reflexes to twist his head the rest of the way clear.
The attack slammed past him. Wind rippled over his hair. His back slammed into the rubble pile that trapped him. The crystalman recovered from its missed attack, swinging its arm like a club now, a sideways blow to crush his head.
“Go low!” the impostor shouted.
Ōbhin understood, his body already moving in that desperate motion. He dived forward, thumb deactivating his resonance blade. He hit the ground before the hulk. The crystalman struck the rubble as he rolled between its feet. Its legs moved; its heel struck Ōbhin’s hip.
Sent him rolling.
He cursed as he tumbled for the hole his trap had made. His legs fell over it. He dropped his sword as he scrambled to seize something. Anything. He slid over the edge, the weight of his lower half dragging him down towards a twenty-cubit drop onto the ruins below.
He snagged a crack. His black leather gloves gripped it while the crystalman turned around. Bright eyes fell upon him. A heavy foot rose to crush his arms. Better broken legs than a crushed skull, he thought and let go.
*
“No!” Avena screamed.
She had to shut it down. She was so close. She put in the last code as she witnessed Ōbhin hanging, about to fall into the hole. She slammed her fingers down on the light buttons as the crystalman’s foot stomped down at his skull.
She hit the deactivate button.
Ōbhin let go and fell.
Avena’s stomach dropped with him. Then the whispers in her mind died. The artificial mind turned off. The characters of glowing light before her winked out of existence. She lurched back, knowing she hadn’t been in time.
“Ōbhin!” she shouted and whirled around to race for the stairs, terrified at what she would find.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The moment Ōbhin let go, the crystalman’s glow died. A deep darkness fell on him as his belly slid across the stone. He was a heartbeat from dropping to his possible death. Fear surged through him. The crystalman creaked as it toppled above him in the murk.
Avena had shut it down a heartbeat too late.
Something rushed above him. A hand seized him. Iron fingers crushed his wrist. A grunt of pain. Agony flared in Ōbhin’s right shoulder socket; his fall halted. The groan of the toppling crystalman grew. Then a loud crash. The wind of its passage as it hurtled past him into the hole whipped over him. An arm, or perhaps a leg, struck his right foot, sending him swinging. The automaton shattered beneath him, mixing with the fragments of its brethren.
It would have landed right on me, thought Ōbhin.
“Come on,” the pain-filled voice of the person holding his arm groaned. With a loud grunt, Ōbhin was yanked out of the hole and deposited on the ground. His savior fell down beside him.
“Who?” Ōbhin asked. “Fingers?”
“No,” the voice answered. Through the pain, Ōbhin recognized it.
His stomach tightened. He scrambled back from the impostor. His hands swept across the dark, grimy ground for his dropped sword. Fury burst through him. The thing who had killed his two friends now had saved his life twice.
That thought bubbled through the anger.
Ōbhin froze. He fixated on the sounds of the thing’s breathing. His eyes adjusted to the dim light shining from the diamond lanterns sitting on the steps of the sheriff building. In it, he made out the impostor standing on Bran’s legs. They were still bent and broken, its unnatural flesh supporting its weight. There was a pop and a crack. The figure jerked. As Ōbhin’s vision grew better, he witnessed those legs straighten.
Become whole.
Can anything kill this thing?
“You murdered Bran,” Ōbhin said, struggling with his emotions. “And Smiles.”
“I became them,” the figure answered in Bran’s voice. The pain was gone. “Healing bones takes the longest. It always hurts, though.”
“Becoming them isn’t being them,” said Ōbhin. “They’re dead, right? Buried in some shallow grave or dumped in the lake?”
“I—Bran—liked the ducks swimming on the lake. I asked my handler to bury him by it.” Sadness brimmed in the impostor’s voice.
“And Smiles?” Ōbhin asked, emotion tightening his voice. As his vision sharpened, he spotted his sword. He snagged it and rose, facing the impostor.
“My handler took him away to a pigpen.” Bran rolled his right shoulder. “His body can't be found.”
Ōbhin’s sword shook. “I see.”
