by Mike Wild
Then it had all ended, at Bougainville, by a single shot through his heart, a shot that was delivered by Joe Pineapples. Blackblood hissed at the memory.
Against his will, they had transformed him into an ABC Warrior, into one of them. Well - there was no more them. There was only General Blackblood and he had a future to plan. Once again, he ran through the options he had available to him since he had decided to strike out alone. He could ally himself with one of the many groups that had appeared as a result of Medusa's wholesale ransacking of the human psyche: the Tharks, perhaps, or the Mysterons. There were even the Martians who lived in their houses of crystal pillars on the edge of the empty sea. But no, he decided - why trade one group for another, one set of petty politics for more? He debated adopting the guerrilla lifestyle at which he had once so excelled, perhaps establishing a planet-wide system of tunnels and striking stealthily and silently against any and all who opposed him. But the tunnels he remembered with fondness were dank and fecund affairs, steeped in mud and lashed by rain, the labyrinthine sub-terrain of a rich and verdant world. Here there was only dust. It just wasn't the same.
The final option was to ally himself with Medusa, just for the hell of it. She appeared, after all, to be the winning side. There would be some certain appeal about appearing on the field of battle and facing off against the remaining ABC Warriors and Joe Pineapples in particular. And yet...
Blackblood could not do it. His programming held hard - that and something else. Loyalty? Allegiance? No. It was something far more insidious than either of those misguided emotions. Blackblood snarled and smashed a fist into his damaged leg, hard, his entire body reverberating with the impact. It wasn't this insignificant injury that was making his anger slowly boil, he realised with sudden, crystal clarity - it was growing resentment against the means by which Medusa had led him and the others to where they were now. The simple fact of the matter was that she was a planet - a God, for frag's sake - and how were they meant to challenge that? By the sheer number and power of her forces and abilities, Medusa had delivered the ABC Warriors a fait accompli that had left them entirely devoid of choice in their response to the battle. They were fighters, but this was not a fair fight. Metaphorically, at least, she had forced them to roll over and die. In a way, she had stripped the ABC Warriors of their destiny as they had once, in his enforced reprogramming, stripped him of his. It was a violation of the normal order of things, something that was fundamentally wrong and he would not let that happen to him again. If he was going to abandon the ABC Warriors, then he would do so by his own choice. Medusa had to have a weakness somewhere and he intended to find it.
Blackblood rose, knowing that he stood truly at a parting of the ways. He studied the tripod trails: one path led more or less back the way he had come, towards Viking City, another out into the Saharan desert, and one to the south, presumably in the direction of Marineris. It did not take much deduction to work out that the northern path led back to the tripod's point of origin. There had to be something there. Making his decision, Blackblood turned and began to limp towards the north.
It was past midnight when Blackblood reached the Sunset Motors plant. He was quite amazed by how creations so unstoppable as the tripods could emerge from a primitive facility such as this. He entered and began to search for anything that could help in the fight against Medusa. He searched the factory floor and the offices, the storerooms and the distribution depot, the cafeteria and the bathrooms. Nothing.
Then he came across a huge pair of locked metal doors that led, according to their sign, to an Area 66. It was marked out of bounds to humans.
A bit of a giveaway that, Blackblood thought.
The ABC Warrior shot away the lock and walked inside. What he found was Sunset Motors' true production area. Stacked in crates all around were what were recognisably tripod components. In the shadows to the rear were some ranks of actual tripods, although they appeared to be unfinished and of no threat. There was also what appeared to be an outdoor testing range. This, presumably, was where the finished tripods had practiced with their heat-rays, as the whole area was badly scorched.
What was of most interest, though, was back inside the area. Running down the middle of Area 66, leading to a set of doors at its end, was the tripod assembly line itself. As with all assembly lines, it was bordered by a number of automated 'bots, machines whose task it was to build the war machines stage by stage. Or at least it had been, because apart from a lingering scent of marshrooms in the air, the facility was entirely abandoned.
One of the assembly machines - a strange-looking device and the very last one on the assembly line - puzzled Blackblood. He saw what the purpose of the others were, but this one with its twin sets of nozzles looked as if it had been designed to give the tripods a paint job before they left to go into battle.
Strange indeed, he thought. Blackblood didn't remember seeing any painted tripods on the battlefield. But he had to admit that the occasional pink or metallic blue one might have relieved some of the monotony as the grey hulks lumbered towards him.
Finding no obvious answers, Blackblood wandered back into the factory. His eyes fell on a large tank in the centre of the production area. From it emanated the unmistakeable odour of Brent Crude. What the frag, he thought. Maybe a long, cold soak would sort his head out. He clanged up the steps to the tank and eased himself into it as if it were a bath. From his chest compartment he produced a small rubber duck and sent it bobbing over the oil with a flick of his finger. Then he propped his feet up on the edge of the tank and relaxed, letting his head slide beneath the surface of the oil and opening his grille to drink it in. Oh, that tastes good, Blackblood thought. He lay there, drowsing for he didn't know how long, before he gradually became aware of a tickling sensation. It came from his foot. Something was playing with his road drill leg.
Blackblood's head emerged slowly and silently from the oil. As it drained from his eyes, he began to make out that a small figure was standing on the rim of the tank. It was holding his leg and a strange coruscating cloud passed between it and the road drill.
Blackblood coughed quietly.
The figure jumped, looked at him and gulped. Suddenly, the cloud went away and the figure pulled out an old rag. It began to buff the metal, whistling.
"Shoeshine, sir?" it asked feebly. It looked at him for a second, then skittered off.
Like a flash, Blackblood was out of the oil, his weapon drawn, hurtling through the air towards his unknown assailant. There was a high-pitched, robotic shriek as Blackblood landed crouched on what appeared to be a very small tripod, pinning it beneath him. Blackblood jammed the barrel of his gun in its face.
"No - no disassemble," the tripod cried.
Blackblood's finger tightened on his trigger.
"No - no disassemble Number 5!"
Blackblood growled. Whatever this thing was, it didn't appear to be a threat. Things that were a threat didn't generally plead for their lives in squeaky little voices. Gradually he pulled back his weapon and straightened up. Spluttering, the tripod picked itself off the floor and dusted itself down. Then it placed two small tripod arms on its hips and stared balefully at Blackblood. "Nice duck," it said.
"What the frag are you?" Blackblood asked.
"Prototype War Machine Number 5," the tripod answered proudly. "Chindogu Class."
Blackblood stared at the machine in bewilderment.
"A War Machine?" he repeated. "You're less than a foot high. What are you going to do - incinerate my ankles?"
"No heat-ray," Number 5 said, his arms outstretched.
"Oh, even better," Blackblood teased. "Head-butt my ankles then? Jump up and nibble my shins to death?"
Number 5 hung his head. Blackblood could have sworn he was scraping his feet. "Okay. Strictly speaking not War Machine."
"Not War Machine."
"No. No offensive capability at all. Zero. Zilch. Bugger all. Oh, apart from this."
Number 5 shot a tiny bea
m at Blackblood, hitting him in the eye. It was like being spat at.
"Oi," Blackblood objected.
"Got your attention, eh?"
"What the frag was that?" Blackblood snarled.
"A-ha!" Number 5 declared. He held up one of his small arms demonstrably. Suddenly, without any warning at all, he darted off, scuttling up the side of one of the warehouse crates and from there, leaping to another. "Moving target," he said quickly, "or is it sitting duck? Clay pigeon, eye of the needle, bulls-eye." He leapt again, this time behind a crate. "Aunt Sally," Blackblood heard his voice going on, "coconut shy, kick here, X marks the spot, fiiire!"
Blackblood could do nothing but stare. The little fragger was insane.
"Shoot me," the tripod persisted. He fired his beam again, drawing Blackblood to him. "Go on, shoot me."
Blackblood couldn't help himself. He fired. It was a single shot but the crate behind which the machine was hiding was gone in an instant, obliterated in a shower of wooden shrapnel. But Number 5 was already gone.
The miniature war machine's head appeared above another crate, off to Blackblood's left. "Gotcha!" Number 5 taunted him, and blew an electronic raspberry.
A raspberry? Blackblood thought. He shook his head, having absolutely no idea how he had gotten himself into this. He let loose with a volley of bullets - budda-budda-budda-budda - but instead of the tripod he took out only light-bulbs, beams, more crates. A section of the factory panelling fell away with a loud clang.
"Can't catch me," Number 5's voice teased. "Head down, run away, bugger off."
Blackblood growled. There was a sudden hum of servomotors and his chest cavity snapped open. With a whir, the makings of an ominous looking 50mm chain gun ejected itself from his interior. Components clicked into place, sliding together, forming the weapon. They locked and loaded. Clamps extended from the weapon's stock and secured themselves to Blackblood's shoulder with a solid thunk. Belts of ammunition looped themselves like living snakes around his waist. A holographic targeting monocle dropped down over his right eye. Crosshairs appeared. Zoomed and blipped.
Number 5 scuttled between two boxes in front of the ABC Warrior, still rattling on.
"Quick lads, scarper... Yo! Fire in the hole... Incoming... Take coverrrrr..."
Blackblood began to fire. Even he was forced to step back and steady himself as the inside of the factory was filled suddenly with a sweeping, horizontal rain of lead, despatching anything and everything in its path. Barrels exploded, leaping into the air like liberated jacks-in-the-box. Metal pillars buckled and groaned as chunks of them were shot clean away. Machine parts ricocheted around like badly designed bouncing bombs. The glass in the windows around the walls disintegrated, crashing down and coating the factory floor in a crunchy, glistening slush. Blackblood kept firing until the barrels of the chain gun clicked hollowly, indicating that they were empty.
The factory roof fell in.
But there was no sign of Number 5. Blackblood reloaded and resumed fire, smoke beginning to rise from the chain gun's chambers, as if they were becoming as frustrated as he.
"Wa-hey!" the tripod shouted excitedly, somersaulting deftly between the last two surviving crates in the whole complex. "Done it again, couldn't hit the side of a barn, where's your specs, four eyes? Missed me - UH!"
One of the chain gun's shells caught Number 5 right between his "eyes", blowing off the top of its head. The diminutive construct stopped dead, looking as startled as it could given its physical circumstances and slapped a hand to its chest. Number 5 sucked in a gasping breath, pirouetted, staggered, and waited a moment as if for dramatic effect, fell flat on its back, twitched once, twitched twice, shuddered, and finally, lay still.
"Excellent shot..." Number 5 wheezed.
Blackblood sighed, retracted the chain gun with another hum of servos and began to walk over to his prone kill. "I told you I was ill..." he heard Number 5 mutter. "Oh, my... CAROL-ANN, STAY AWAY FROM THE LIGHT! Mother, is that you?"
Blackblood couldn't believe that the little fragger was still rattling on. He raised a foot to stamp down hard on what remained of the evasive tripod's head.
Number 5, completely intact again, stared up at him. The ABC Warrior could have sworn that he smiled. "Number 5 is aliiive!"
"What the frag?"
"Sixty-six point four per cent," the tripod said. From somewhere he miraculously produced a clipboard and marked down the score. "High score currently attributed to War Machine 2743, known to his friends - though he hasn't got any - as ED209." He wagged an arm in Blackblood's face. "You, my friend, could do better!"
Blackblood stared. "You're a fraggin' target droid!" he suddenly realised.
"Bingo," Number 5 said.
"A target droid that can't be destroyed."
"Uh-huh."
Blackblood grabbed Number 5 and hauled him up in front of his face. "Tell me, my little friend," he hissed, "why is that?"
"I could show you..."
Blackblood snarled, "Why would you do that? The last time I looked you were one of Medusa's... creations."
"Why wouldn't I?" Number 5 said. "I don't see Medusa round here anymore, do you? Thousands of tripods, she makes - thousands! Every one of 'em gets a career in the army. They get out, they go places and they burn people. Me? I get shot at. Out there on the firing range. Day in, day out, day in, day out, day-"
"I get the-"
"Then she just abandons me! I ask ya, big fella, what kind of reward is that for faithful-"
"I get the point," Blackblood emphasised. "But that doesn't mean I should trust you."
"I fixed your leg," Number 5 said.
"Pardon?" said Blackblood.
"Your leg. Remember? Bath-time?"
"What the frag are you...?" Blackblood began then stopped. He did remember: the tickling sensation. And, now that he thought of it, when he had stepped back to steady himself earlier, he had stepped back on his road drill leg. And it had been intact. He looked down. The leg was whole again, like new. What the frag had Number 5 done?
"You're on the team, Shorty," Blackblood said. "Show me."
Number 5 led Blackblood back to the strange machine at the end of the tripod assembly line. Number 5 flicked a switch and a puff of something shot from the first of the nozzles. It left a kind of lingering cloud in the air, though there was no odour.
"Small machines," Number 5 explained. "Smaller even than me. Very much smaller."
"Nanobots?" Blackblood said. That couldn't be right. The ABC Warriors all had nanobots. Washing machines had nanobots. There was no way it could explain...
"Noooooooo..." Number 5 said. "At least not normal nanobots."
"Not normal?"
Number 5 activated the machine again. Another puff of something emerged from the second nozzle. This cloud immediately hooked up with the first. There was a little agitation going on.
"Piggy-back-bots," Number 5 said.
"Piggy-back bots?" Blackblood repeated. He ruminated for a moment on the name. "Hold on - are you telling me that the nanobots have their own nanobots?"
"That is what Number 5 is saying, yes."
"Kind of... nano-nanos?"
"Shazbot!" Number 5 said, pointing a finger.
"This is starting to make sense," Blackblood said. "It isn't lack of damage we've been seeing fighting with the tripods, it's their instantaneous repair. Only we haven't been seeing it because it's that fast. And that kind of instantaneous repair would only be possible if the nanos themselves were constantly repaired by other nanos. Biol! Wait till Deadlock gets wind of this."
"Who's Deadlock?"
"Weird guy. You'd like him."
"Would he like me?
"No. So without this nano-nano skin, Medusa's tripods are exactly what they look like?" Blackblood said. He pointed at the unfinished machines. "Just boilers on stilts?"
"Boilers on stilts," Number 5 confirmed.
Blackblood pulled a weapon and fired a round of his best fragmentation bullet
s at the front rank of tripods. The war machines exploded in a satisfying tangle of arms, legs and body parts, and clattered noisily to the ground, totally destroyed.
"I'll be fragged," Blackblood said. "Medusa made it so we couldn't see the wood for the trees."
Number 5 looked around. "Wood? Trees?"
"Never mind. We have to find a way to strip Medusa's tripods of their nano-nanos," he said simply. "Find out where she got them."
"Well," said Number 5.
"What?" Blackblood demanded urgently.
Number 5 shook his head. "No. Number 5 should really not say. Number 5 would not want damage to-"
Blackblood's gun appeared in Number 5's face once more. He might not be able to destroy the little fragger but he could certainly keep his nano-nanos busy.
Number 5 gulped.
"Spit it out, Shorty."
"Number 5 knows where nano-nanos came from," he said, "because Number 5 was sent by Medusa to fetch them. He remembers seeing..."
Blackblood shot one bullet.
"Ow! He remembers seeing next to nano-nanos some other nanotechnology." The miniature tripod leaned forward and whispered. "Number 5 thinks it may be anti-nano-nano technology."
"Where?" Blackblood demanded.
"No point in Number 5 saying," Number 5 said. "Security there is veerrry strong."