Читать книгу: «DEV1AT3 (DEVIATE)», страница 6

2.7
SOLOMON

“GOOD EEEEEEVENING, HUMAN FRIENDS!”

The shop was lit by flickering neon, red and purple and blue. The sign above the door read NEW BETHLEHEM PHARMACY AND GENERAL STORE. Walking inside with Hunter close behind, Lemon saw the space was huge, the shelves were crammed with gear, neatly cataloged and labeled. Filthy as New Bethlehem was, she noticed there was no dust on the stock or dirt on the floors. A small portrait of Saint Michael graced the wall. A sign over the counter informed Lemon:

YOUR SATISFACTION GUARANTEED

A buzzer had announced their arrival, and before the door was even shut, a tall logika had risen up from behind an antique cash register. Its hull was painted creamy white, trimmed in golden filigree. Its eyes were round and cheery, and when it spoke, an LED in its mouth flashed, lighting up its smile with every word.

“MY NAME IS SOLOMON, FRIENDS,” it said in a proper fancy accent. “AND WHO MIGHT I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF MEETING THIS FINE EVE?”

“Lemon Fresh,” the girl mumbled, feeling altogether wrecked.

“WELCOME TO OUR HUMBLE EMPORIUM, MISS FRESH! HOW MAY I HELP? NEW CLOTHES? FIREARMS, PERHAPS? I’VE THE FINEST IN ALL NEW BETHLEHEM, FIFTY PERCENT OFF AMMUNITION WITH ANY PURCHASE. YOUR SATISFACTION IS, AS THE SIGN SAYS, GUARANTEED.”

Hunter stared at the logika in disgust, lips pressed tight together. Lemon shuffled to the counter, wiped the sweat off her brow.

“We need meds,” she said. “Something for radsickness. You got any?”

“OH MY GOODNESS, ARE YOU ILL?” the logika smiled.

“I’ve had better days.” Lemon winced, pressing at her stomach.

“OH MY, THAT’S JUST TERRIBLE!”

No matter what it said or how it said it, the logika’s face wasn’t animatronic, which meant its expression never changed. The bot just kept on grinning, as if it were telling you that you’d just won the lottery, or that there was a mix-up at the medstation when you were born and you were actually CorpState royalty.

“Um, thanks,” Lemon said. “So about that medicine. You got any?”

“OH, GOODNESS, YES!” The bot waved at some small plastic bottles on the shelf behind it. “THREE PER DAY TO RELIEVE SYMPTOMS, BEST WITH MEALS, YOUR SATISFACTION IS, AS THE SIGN SAYS, GUARANTEED.”

“Fizzyfizzyfizzy.” Lemon sighed with relief, fully prepared to jump over the counter and kiss the bot right on his creeper grin. “Can I have some, please?”

“OH, GOODNESS, NO!”

“… Why not?”

“WELL, FROM THE LOOK OF YOU, MY DEAR, YOU DON’T HAVE TWO BOB TO RUB TOGETHER, IF YOU’LL PARDON THE EXPRESSION. AND I’M HARDLY RUNNING A CHARITY.”

Lemon reached into her undies, pulled out the second credstik she’d stolen from Brother Dubya. “It’s a good thing I’m not asking for charity, then, Sparky.”

The logika swiped the stik off the countertop, ran it through a reader beside the register. The tally flashed, and the bot leaned in for a closer look.

“MY GOODNESS, THAT’S QUITE A SUM. ENOUGH TO BUY OUT MY ENTIRE STOCK.”

“I’ll take it,” Lemon declared. “And some clean socks, while we’re on it.”

“OH, I’M AFRAID NOT,” Solomon smiled.

“You just said I had enough creds to buy your entire stock! How much do you charge for socks?”

“ALL OUR APPAREL IS REASONABLY PRICED, I ASSURE YOU, MADAM. BUT ACCORDING TO THE SERIAL NUMBER, THIS CREDSTIK WAS ISSUED BY SISTER DEE ON HER PERSONAL ACCOUNT. IT HAS OBVIOUSLY BEEN … HOW TO PUT IT GENTLY …” The bot tilted its head. “MISPLACED BY ITS ORIGINAL OWNER? HMM? AND I COULDN’T POSSIBLY ACCEPT STOLEN CREDITS AS PAYMENT. I’M A ROBOT OF SCRUPLES, MISS FRESH.”

The bot handed back her stik, kept right on smiling.

“Waitaminute …” Lemon blinked. “You are a robot. And the First Law says you’re not allowed to hurt humans, yeah? Doesn’t that mean you have to give me the meds? I’m gonna die without them, right?”

“OH, ALMOST CERTAINLY, FROM THE LOOK OF YOU. BUT I’M AFRAID THAT GIVING YOU THE MEDICINE WOULD RESULT IN A FAR MORE SERIOUS INFRACTION OF THE FIRST LAW.”

“… How’s that?”

“WELL, THIS SHOP IS A BUSTLING HUB OF COMMERCE HERE IN NEW BETHLEHEM, YOU SEE. THE CUSTOMER’S SATISFACTION IS, AS THE SIGN SAYS, GUARANTEED, AND AS SUCH, FOLK COME FROM ALL OVER, KNOWING THEY’LL GET A FAIR PRICE AND PAY A FAIR PRICE IN RETURN. BUT IF I WERE TO JUST START GIVING THINGS AWAY, WELL, THE SYSTEM WOULD COLLAPSE, WOULDN’T IT? AND WITHOUT THIS STORE, MY TRADERS WOULD BE OUT OF A LIVELIHOOD, AND NEW BETHLEHEM CITIZENS DEPRIVED OF WHAT THEY NEED TO SURVIVE.”

“Okay,” Lemon frowned. “But without the meds, I’m still gonna die.”

“QUITE THE CONUNDRUM, YES?”

“So shouldn’t your logic centers be short-circuiting or something right now?”

“NO, I’M GOOD WITH IT.”

Hunter slammed her fist down on the counter. “Lemonfresh requires the medicine, fleshless one. Give it over or—”

“I SHOULD STOP YOU RIGHT THERE, MADAM,” Solomon said, raising one hand. “BEFORE YOU FINISH YOUR NO-DOUBT-ELOQUENT ATTEMPT AT INTIMIDATION, I MUST WARN YOU THAT THE THERMOGRAPHIC CAPABILITIES IN MY OPTICS HAVE ENABLED ME TO SURMISE THAT YOU ARE NOT, IN THE STRICTEST SENSE, HUMAN. AND THEREFORE BLOWING A HOLE THROUGH YOUR PELVIS WITH THE GAUSS CANNON CURRENTLY POINTED AT YOU UNDER THE COUNTER WOULD BE ABSOLUTELY NO IMPEDIMENT FOR ME WHATSOEVER.”

The logika tilted his head and smiled.

“YOU WERE SAYING?”

“I need those meds,” Lemon pleaded.

“AND IF I MAY SPEAK FRANKLY, MY DEAR, YOU ALSO NEED A SHOWER AND CHANGE OF CLOTHES. BUT I’M AFRAID I DON’T SEE ANY OF THAT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE.” The logika smiled. “THOUGH FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, I AM TERRIBLY SORRY ABOUT YOUR IMPENDING IRRADIATED DEMISE. I’M TOLD IT’S QUITE UNPLEASANT.”

“Well, is there anything else—”

“THANK YOU, COME AGAIN!”

“But I—”

“THAAAAAAANK YOU, COME AGAIN!”

Lemon looked Solomon up and down. She’d met its kind a thousand times before, though admittedly, never in bot form. Kicking up a fuss now was only going to spell more trouble, and trouble in New Bethlehem meant Brotherhood. And so, despite the growing worry she might actually end up dying in this rat-hole town, she pulled on her braveface. Her streetface. Gave the logika a small nod.

“Thanks for your time, Sparky.”

Lemon limped out the door, the buzzer chirping as she stepped into the street. Down the end of the block, she could see the crowd had cleared out from the Brotherhood’s stage and filed into the WarDome—she could hear the familiar sound of distant roars, the drumming of impatient feet. Around the stage, a dozen Disciples were silhouetted against drums of burning trash, and beyond them, Lemon could see those big wooden Xs where two luckless figures hung.

There’s worse ways to go than radsickness, I guess.

Hunter stood behind her, lips pursed in thought. “Perhaps there are other traders who have the same chemicals. We should keep hunting.”

Lemon shook her head. “Market’s closing. Looks like everyone’s heading to watch the Domefight. And at least we know the meds we need are in this one.”

Hunter scowled, pulled aside her cloak. Lemon spotted a pistol at her belt, similar to the rifle she’d left with Mai’a—pale and spiny, as if crafted out of old fishbones. A handful of bumblebees were crawling through Hunter’s hair, up her throat, clearly sharing their mistress’s agitation.

“Our stings will not work against a fleshless one. Our weapons, either.”

“I’m not suggesting we get murderous,” Lemon said.

“What does she suggest?”

“You notice anything special about the lock on Solomon’s front door?”

Hunter frowned, clearly puzzled. And despite the growing pain in her belly, her creeping fear, Lemon managed to muster a smile.

“It’s electronic,” she said.

It almost felt like the old days.

She’d run solo most of her childhood in LD, but every now and then, someone would rustle a big-time scam and need to crew up. She’d stolen a whole crate of Neo-Meat™ with a few kids from Engine Road once. And there was that time she and the Akuma twins ripped that WarDome bookie and ate like queens for a month. Of all the Rules in the Scrap, Number Five had always been her favorite:

Takers keepers.

She and Hunter found an old salvage place a little down the way from Solomon’s. They sat in the shadows under its awning to wait, and Lemon tried not to think about those deviate kids at the other end of the square, or what the radiation might be doing to her body as the minutes ticked by. The BioMaas agent offered her another algae bar, but her belly was feeling a lot worse. Instead, she wet her cracking lips with their water flask and watched as Solomon’s “boutique” closed up for the night with all the shops around it.

As a street thief in Los Diablos, Lemon’s first lessons had been in patience. Looking for the right moment to strike, slit the pocket, snatch the scratch. She’d learned the hard way about the value of waiting, and Hunter seemed to have learned the lesson, too. Together, they sat and watched the patrols wander by, talking through Lemon’s plan in hushed voices as battle raged inside the WarDome. She thought of Evie, of their time together fighting Miss Combobulation in Dregs. Wondering where her bestest was as her heart ached beneath her ribs.

The Disciples wandered in packs of four, rolling through the market at regular intervals. Within an hour, Lemon knew their patterns, knew the gaps, knew the moment. And finally, she nodded to Hunter, and it was on.

They stole over to the front of Solomon’s, the BioMaas operative moving quick and graceful, Lemon limping from the hurt in her gut. The store’s neon was switched off, the windows blocked by rusted shutters. Hunter kept watch while Lemon pressed against the front door. It was solid steel, hung with a sign depicting Solomon’s infuriating grin and a speech bubble now declaring APOLOGIES, WE’RE CLOSED! Beneath the notice pulsed the red LEDs of a twelve-digit control pad.

Lemon pressed her palm to the lock, felt for the power inside her. She’d never been very good at little things—using her gift with finesse was way harder than just letting it loose to fry everything around her. Closing her eyes, she reached for the storm of gray static, trying to make it small as possible.

With a loud bang, the neon above the store burst, every light around her fizzled and the PA speakers shorted out entirely. Before anyone came for a looksee, Lemon pushed the front door open and slipped inside, Hunter close behind.

Squinting around the gloom, Lemon felt an old familiar thrill prickling on her skin. The fear of getting caught, the buzz of doing wrong. It wasn’t that she was a bad person. But she’d been found in a laundry detergent box outside an ethyl joint as a baby. Named for the logo on the side of it by the drunks who discovered her. The only thing her parents had left her was the little silver five-leafed clover she wore around her neck—it wasn’t like she’d had many wonderful role models up till now.

Besides, being bad sometimes had a funny way of feeling really good.

Hunter waited by the door as Lemon crept along the shelves, moving by feel through the gloom. The register was still functional, so it looked like she’d managed to stop her gift damaging anything too far inside the store. Peering over the countertop, the girl saw the meds she needed, grinned up at the sign above her head.

YOUR SATISFACTION GUARANTEED

“Damn right …,” she whispered.

“GOOD EEEEEEVENING, HUMAN FRIEND!”

Lemon near jumped out of her skin, tumbling back on her hind parts as Solomon rose up from behind the counter. The gloom was illuminated by the bot’s smile, pulsing in time with every word he spoke.

“OH, NO, PLEASE DON’T GET UP.” The bot’s optics were fixed on Lemon as it hauled a bulky rifle from behind the counter and aimed it at Hunter. “I’M NOT CERTAIN HOW YOU DID IT, BUT I’M RATHER MIFFED YOU BROKE MY DOOR, AND SHOOTING YOUR INHUMAN FRIEND HERE MIGHT TAKE THE EDGE OFF. SO, IF EVERYONE COULD JUST HOLD STILL, I’LL CALL THE CONSTABULARY AND THEY’LL TAKE CARE OF YOU BOTH, YES?”

Solomon reached for an old battered CB radio with his free hand.

“You’re calling the Brotherhood on us?” Lemon asked.

“I’M SORRY, DIDN’T I MAKE THAT CLEAR?”

“But they’ll kill me, won’t they? Isn’t that a breach of the First Law?”

“WELL, HERE’S THE THING, MY STICKY-FINGERED FRIEND. I’VE MADE IT MY BUSINESS TO REMAIN UNAWARE OF THE PUNISHMENTS INFLICTED FOR THEFT IN NEW BETHLEHEM FOR THAT VERY REASON. IT COULD BE THAT THEY GIVE YOU A PAT ON THE BACKSIDE AND SEND YOU ON YOUR MERRY WAY.” Solomon tilted his head. “THOUGH I DOUBT IT.”

“Isn’t that a little against the spirit of the Law?” Lemon asked.

“NO, I’M GOOD WITH—”

The logika bucked, his whole body going rigid. He made a funny little noise in his voxbox, his optics glowing white before popping inside his metal skull. Sparks burst from the LED display at his chest, the radio in his hand, from his maddening grin. And with a small electronic whimper, Solomon crashed face-first into the antique register, then collapsed to the floor in a smoking heap.

Lemon lowered her hand and rolled to her feet, pulled herself over the counter. By the fizzing light of Solomon’s remains, she popped the top off a bottle of radmeds and scoffed three pills, swallowing her salvation with a grimace. Pulse racing, she stuffed her cargo pockets with the rest of the meds and anything else worth stealing. Finally, she knelt beside the fried logika, glanced one last time at the sign above the counter.

YOUR SATISFACTION GUARANTEED

“You know, you’re right,” she said. “That was completely satisfying.”

Hunter had the exit open a crack, letting roars from the distant WarDome drift in from the night outside, along with the occasional deathbee. The insects crawled over the agent’s cheeks, along her fluttering eyelashes, and Lemon had to suppress a shiver as she rejoined her by the door.

“The way is clear,” she whispered.

“You sure?”

Hunter nodded. “A Hunter sees with many eyes, Lemonfresh.”

“Right,” the girl replied. “Out into the street, walk it like we own it, head straight for the gate. If a patrol stops us, keep your deathbees calm, let me talk. Fizzy?”

Hunter nodded and the pair slipped out from the store, closing the door behind them. The market was almost completely deserted, the population of New Bethlehem all turned out for the Dome. A few gutter runners standing around a burning drum gave them a curious look as they passed. A Disciple patrol was gathered under the PA speaker, pondering why it had shorted out.

Lemon’s heart was thumping in her chest, her skin tingling at the feeling of a grift done right. Maybe she was imagining it, maybe it was just the relief, but those meds were making her feel better already. The night was bright and her pockets were full and she was starting to think they were free and clear.

Until they passed by the Brotherhood’s stage at the other end of the square again.

She tried not to look. Tried not to notice the two figures nailed up on those Xs. The way the Brotherhood had patched up the bullet wound in the girl’s chest so she wouldn’t bleed out before she’d suffered. The way a dozen Brotherhood thugs were slouching on the steps in front of those hanging bodies, laughing and jawing as if nothing were amiss. As if they’d not nailed up two kids to suffocate under their own weight beneath tomorrow’s sun.

The dead don’t fight another day, she reminded herself.

Just because they’re like you, doesn’t make them crew.

She missed Evie, she realized.

She missed Ezekiel and Cricket and the feeling she was wrapped up in a story much bigger than herself. It was easier back then, just being the sidekick. Dragged along for the ride, expected to contribute nothing more than the occasional quip and maybe a shoulder to cry on.

Her shoulders weren’t strong enough for anything else, after all.

She wasn’t big enough to do this on her own.

Was she?

“Stop,” she whispered.

Hunter reached inside her cloak, instantly alert, scanning the night around them for danger. “Trouble?”

“Not yet,” she sighed.

Lemon looked to the stage behind them, those kids strung up to die.

“But I think I’m about to make some.”

2.8
PALADIN

Be careful what you wish for.

Cricket knew this song like he knew his own name. The stamping feet and rising cheers. The hiss of pistons and the percussion of metal bodies colliding. Bright lights and ultra-violence, the crowd safe behind concrete barriers and rusting iron bars, secure in the knowledge that the things fighting and bleeding out and dying on the killing floor couldn’t feel a thing.

WarDome.

The big bot waited in a work pit below the Dome floor, watching the boy named Abraham seal up his chest cavity and bolt it closed. The dustneck brothers Murph and Mike stood on the sidelines, offering suggestions and being politely ignored. Abraham was obviously something of an expert on bot tech—he’d replaced Cricket’s faulty powercells without much fuss, given how big they were. The big bot could feel new current rolling through his limbs, power crackling at his fingertips. Internal readouts showed he was almost back at full capacity, and ready to roll.

“How do you feel?” the boy asked in his soft voice.

Cricket simply stared, blue eyes aglow.

“It’s all right, you can speak,” Abraham said. “What’re your power levels at?”

“NINETY-TWO PERCENT,” Cricket replied.

“That’ll be plenty,” the boy nodded. “Your opponent in tonight’s match is called the Thunderstorm. It’s the champion WarBot from a settlement down south called the Edge. It’s only nine thousand horsepower, but it fights dirty. We’re running live ballistics, so—”

“I DON’T WANT TO GO UP THERE,” Cricket said.

Abraham pulled his tech-goggs up onto his forehead and blinked, as if Cricket had just told him the sky was green or up was actually down. For the first time, Cricket saw the boy’s eyes were a brilliant pale blue.

“Where’d you two say you found this thing again?” he asked.

“Out west,” Mikey replied. “In the Clefts.”

“You brought us a Domefighter that doesn’t want to fight Dome?”

Cricket used to joke about it. Between the feeds Evie had obsessively watched and Miss Combobulation’s brawls in the Los Diablos WarDome, he’d seen logika fight hundreds of times before. And he’d cheered along as Evie won, learned the Dome’s tricks backward, joked that one day he’d grow up to be a Domefighter, too. But he’d just been a helperbot back then. Forty centimeters high. Handing Evie tools when she needed them and offering advice when he could. He said he wanted to fight on the killing floor, but really, all he ever wanted was to be taken seriously.

To be treated with respect.

To be big.

When Silas had installed his persona in the Quixote’s body, it’d been like a dream come true. And he’d used his new power as best he could to defend Evie, throwing all he could into the brawl at Babel for the sake of the girl who’d been his mistress. But that’d been life and death. That’d been for love. He never thought for a second that one day he might have to actually fight for amusement.

“DON’T MAKE ME GO UP THERE,” Cricket pleaded.

Stomping over to the big logika, Murphy kicked his foot.

“Hey, listen here!” he yelled. “I order you to fight in this Dome match, you hear me? When that countdown finishes, you’ll fight until your opponent’s out of commission or you are, acknowledge!”

Cricket looked down into Murphy’s eyes.

Up to the Dome floor above his head.

Be careful what you wish for.

“ACKNOWLEDGED,” he replied.

“See?” Murph grinned at Abraham. “Toldja. Pure quality, this one. Fistful of hardcore, true cert. You’ll see.”

Abraham looked at Cricket again, his pale blue eyes narrowed.

“I suppose we will,” he murmured.

The boy lowered his mechanical gantry, stepped down onto the work pit floor. With the flick of a switch, the metal braces holding Cricket’s arms and legs in place were released, allowing him free movement.

Except I’m not free at all, am I?

He’d never been in this position before. He’d always been beholden to humans, sure. And Evie had sometimes told him to be quiet when he’d wanted to speak his mind. But she’d never forced him to do something he’d hate.

He realized how lucky he’d been, serving people who cared about what he thought. How he felt.

And now?

“Juves and juvettes!” came a cry through the PA above his head. “Disciples and believers, get yourself situated! Tonight’s main bout is about to begin!”

Cricket fixed the boy in his glowing stare. “PLEASE, I DON’T WANT TO—”

“Shuddup!” Murph hollered, kicking him so hard he hurt his foot. “Dammit … you speak when you’re spoken to! Now, you get up there and you fight!”

“… ACKNOWLEDGED,” Cricket said.

“You’ll do fine,” Abraham promised quietly. “You’re built for this.”

“In the blue zone!” came the cry above. “From parts unknown, weighing in at seventy-one tons, get yourselves rowdy for tonight’s challenger!”

Cricket felt the platform beneath him shudder, the broad hatchway above his head grinding open. The crowd’s howls washed over him, gaining in volume as the platform slowly brought him up to the killing floor. Floodlights arced over the Dome, the flash compensation in his optics kicking in as he scoped his situation.

It was a long way from good, true cert.

The arena was a few hundred meters wide, scattered with the broken bodies of bots who’d been destroyed in earlier matches. Barricades of concrete and steel littered the ground. A concrete wall ten meters high encircled the arena, and outside that, concentric rings of bleachers rose like the tiers of an oldskool amphitheater.

As Cricket watched, a dome of rusted iron bars rolled up from the floor and enclosed the space. A bright neon sign above his head began flashing:

WARNING: LIVE FIRE MATCH

A motley crowd of scavvers, scenekillers and wageslaves gathered in the bleachers and pressed up against the bars. Their volume was thunderous, washing over Cricket in waves.

“Aaaaand now, in the red zone! All the way from the Edge …” The EmCee’s voice was swamped under a long chorus of boos. “… Weighing in at seventy-seven tons, winner of sixteen hardcore bouts, make some ruckus for … the Thunderstooooorm!”

A blast of oldskool rawk music spilled over the PA as Cricket’s opponent rose into view, bathed in a flood of red light. The logika was squat and quadrupedal, heavily armored. Twin gauss cannons were mounted on its shoulder brackets, its fists crackling with live current. It was painted black, a lightning bolt sprayed in gold on its greaves and chest, its optics glowing bright green.

“HI,” Cricket waved. “I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU JUST WANNA BE FRIENDS?”

“TARGET ACQUIRED,” the Storm called in a booming voice, turning on Cricket. “MISSION: DESTROY.”

“OKAY, THEN,” Cricket nodded. “GOOD TALK.”

The enemy bot stepped off its platform and spread its arms wide, launching off a burst of fireworks from the missile pods on its back. The New Bethlehem crowd obviously weren’t fans of the visiting logika, booing louder as the rockets exploded into showers of red and white.

“Sixty seconds until official betting closes, believers! We remind you tonight’s bout is sponsored by Daedalus Technologies, and brought to you through the generosity of our beloved Sister Dee and her Horsemen! Can I get an aaaaamen?”

Cricket’s optics roamed the crowd as they stamped and roared. He saw Sister Dee sitting in a ringside box, raising her hand in acknowledgment. The woman was still dressed all in white, the skull on her face freshly painted, a plastic red flower in her hair. Beside her sat three men, one tall and fierce, one stick-thin, the last almost pudgy. Each wore the same skullpaint on their faces, the same white cassocks.

The Brotherhood must run this whole damn town …

Cricket saw Abraham standing dutifully beside his mother. He looked small compared to the Horsemen, totally out of place. He saw him speak to Sister Dee, the woman smiling and squeezing his hand as she replied.

The crowd quieted down, and Cricket turned his attention to his opponent, his circuits awash with electric trepidation. It wasn’t like he could be afraid technically. But the Third Law still compelled him to protect his own existence. Problem was, Cricket knew he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag.

Silas had never felt the need to program Cricket with combat techniques—he’d been less than half a meter tall for most of his life. In his new body, he could brawl, he was strong, and that’d been enough to see him go toe-to-toe with Faith in Babel. But against a logika that was programmed to mince other bots for a living?

“I HAVE A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS,” he muttered.

“Ten seconds to full hostile!” cried the EmCee.

Cricket searched the crowd, looking for a friendly face and finding only bright eyes and bared teeth. A countdown appeared in the neon above his head and the mob joined in, stamping their feet in time as Cricket called out to the Thunderstorm.

“Five!”

“HEY, LISTEN—”

“Four!”

“I’M THINKING—”

“Three!”

“WE COULD GO SOMEWHERE QUIETER—”

“Two!”

“AND MAYBE JUST—”

“One!”

“TALK ABOUT THIS?”

“WAR!”

The Thunderstorm raised its cannons and unloaded at Cricket’s chest. The big bot yelped and threw himself behind one of the steel barricades as the shots whizzed overhead. The crowd roared, the Storm followed up with a burst of missiles from the pods on its back. Cricket rolled aside as the shots spiraled through the air toward him, trailing plumes of rainbow-colored smoke. The ground around him exploded, shrapnel ripping tiny gouges in his plate armor, the flashes making him flinch. That kind of detonation would have torn him to pieces when he was little, and his self-preservation subroutines were in full overdrive.

“First strike to the Storm!” the EmCee cried.

Cricket hunched behind a metal barricade, panic flooding his systems.

He wanted to run.

He wanted to cower.

He was never the bravest bot in the Scrap.

But he’d been ordered to fight, and the Second Law countermanded any desire for self-preservation. And so, instead of running away, he was forced to charge. Across the killing floor, feet pounding the steel. As he drew closer, some hidden instinct clicked into place, and he felt the combat software inside his WarBot body engage. A small 360-degree map of the WarDome appeared in his head, tracking his opponent’s movements, speed, ammo count, damage reports, and screaming warning about incoming fire.

The enemy logika let loose with another blast from its cannons, Cricket twisting past the first as the second spanggged off his armored shoulder. He didn’t feel pain, but his damage reports started flashing brighter. He had no weapons, no real advantage. His only plan was wrapping his hands around the Storm and tearing pieces away till there was nothing left to rip off.

“Look at it go, folks!”

The crowd gasped as Cricket wove among the barricades, rolling over a destroyed logika hull and tumbling past a barrage of exploding missiles. He was big, but thanks to his tracking software, he was surprisingly agile. His engines thundered, the twelve thousand horsepower in his limbs rushing like a waterfall. The crowd roared as he drew close, only to howl in disappointment as the Storm fired a jet burst from each foot and sailed into the air. Articulated toes curled around the WarDome’s bars above and it seized hold, hanging upside down over the killing floor like a limpet.

“UM,” Cricket called. “THAT’S NOT ENTIRELY FAIR, IS IT?”

“TARGET ACQUIRED. MISSION: DESTROY.”

“YEAH, YOU SAID THAT ALREADY.”

The Thunderstorm unleashed another missile barrage. Cricket raised one arm to shield his optics, shells bursting on his armor, the explosions catching him across the back and ripping up his hydraulics. An internal alarm sounded, his body feeding him more damage reports, a TARGET LOCKED message flashing in his displays. Threat washed over his circuitry, the Third Law screaming in his mind. Memories of the fights he’d watched with Evie flickered in his head, the pair sitting in her room, Lemon beside them, watching legends of the Dome throw down before the wondering crowd. But that was then. This was now.

He was alone, afraid.

But beneath and between and beyond that, the big bot was surprised to realize …

He was angry.

Angry at being taken away from his friends. Angry about what had happened to Evie. Angry that these humans had stolen him, put their hands in him, thrown him in here to fight for their enjoyment. He might have been made to serve, but he hadn’t been made to serve them, and the injustice of it all boiled over his circuitry, washing his vision with red. Some electronic instinct, some urging in the software of his new body, made him reach out toward the Thunderstorm. And as the crowd gasped in wonder, Cricket’s right hand folded up inside his forearm, and a heavy chaingun unfolded in its place, firing a hail of bullets right at the enemy bot.

“Looks like our challenger has some surprises up its sleeve, folks!”

The blast was bright, thunderous, shocking even to Cricket. Tracer rounds flew like fireflies, the crowd backing away from the bars even as they roared approval. The unexpected recoil threw off his aim, Cricket staggered backward and almost fell. The wild spray missed the Storm completely, but it did strike the WarDome bars the enemy logika was clinging to. The shots were armor-piercing, explosive-tipped, ten thousand rounds per minute. The steel shredded like wet tissue. And with its footholds blasted away, the Thunderstorm was sent plummeting toward the ground.