The last guard in armor tried to take advantage of the distraction created by a concerted assault from three security ’bots. He charged low from behind, trying to bring the black monster down while it smashed the androids to smoking scrap with quick, confident blows. When the guard hit, driving a reinforced shoulder into the back of his enemy’s thigh, he nearly succeeded in toppling the black giant.
But the cyborg’s speed and poise were too fantastic for so clumsy a maneuver. The hips immediately dropped and turned, and a club-like right hand, still holding the thrashing top half of a security android, brought a blow down on the guard that shook the floor and pancaked the man face-first into the deck.
Two more hammer fists twisted the exo-suit in irreparable contortions, and Roger spared a wince for the poor operator inside. For he too, was now also likely irreparably twisted and broken as well. Roger remembered all too well how that felt.
The security ’droids used this brief interlude to pile on four or five at a time. It was like watching a colony of ants try to bring down a goliath beetle; the more they swarmed, the faster they died.
’Droids designed to absorb small arms fire and muscle flesh-and-blood people around were hopelessly outclassed by the big cyborg, and no quantity of frenzied punching and kicking from the red and yellow mechanical men was going to bring the monster down.
The androids flew off the dog pile one at a time, at what looked to Roger like escape velocity. The brawl rained sparks and metal body parts in noisy disconnected double-time. A brutal, industrial tattoo that would deafen anyone who did not have the forethought to wear hearing protection filled the open spaces and caused anything not firmly secured to rattle and vibrate.
It was nothing short of a war zone, condensed into the tiny footprint of a warehouse and some offices. At one point, Roger’s scans indicated as many as nine androids in the fray simultaneously, with Vogts raining sustained fire into the mix whenever a target presented itself. The stupid turrets were doing more damage than anything else, Roger noted, as the ricochets were bringing down androids almost as fast as the cyborg was. Bad planning and poor situational awareness from the operators, but that was to be expected. This situation was very far outside of what anyone here knew how to handle.
Well, except maybe for Roger, of course. For all the high-tech, superhuman bombast of the battle he faced, they were just two men about to have a fight, and Roger knew how to handle that situation better than most. Adding a few tons of bleeding edge cybernetics didn’t change the fundamentals of that equation.
That’s why Roger was content to watch millions of credits’ worth of security technology get smashed like children’s toys by the snarling monster in the next room. His turn to play would come soon enough, and he’d rather not have the distractions of weak AI and panicked fire from clueless drone pilots when that time came.
The last of the security androids met their ends as projectiles employed to eliminate the few remaining Vogt drones. The withering fire from their bead cannons had not even warranted a response from the big man until the powered armor and androids were under control. As it was, the broken bodies of the security force served as clubs and hurled missiles to shut down the remote-controlled turrets.
Roger’s sensors, having observed and cataloged all the action, pinged an identification on his foe: Lance Corporal Roland Tankowicz, Planetary Army, retired. The list of registered augmentations associated with him was long enough to fill two screens, but most were simply listed as “classified.” As a matter of fact, virtually all information on Tankowicz came back as “restricted,” “classified,” or “redacted.”
A slow smirk spread across the face of Roger Dawkins.
A goddamn top-secret military fucking cyborg, he mused, well fuck me sideways, folks. Welcome to the big-time, Roger!
He was going to be so fucking rich when this was over; Roger just knew it. Reputations and careers were made on opportunities like this, and his was a reputation for taking all comers.
Johnson’s voice crackled over the secure comm, “Dawkins! What are you doing! Ribiero is not in his cell and the detention level has been compromised!”
Roger did not want to deal with that whining nerd right at this moment. He had man’s work to do and whatever the sniveling prick of a doctor needed was a distant second to the career-defining battle ahead of him. His response was curt and authoritative, “I’m dealing with the fucking problem, Doc. I’ll call you back in a couple of minutes.” He closed the channel without waiting to hear Johnson’s reply.
“Boring conversation anyway,” he grumbled to no one in particular.
He went ahead and pumped the armature up to full output. That much at least, he knew was going to be necessary. Then he keyed the PA system and broadcast at full volume.
“Hey Mungo! Remember me?”
It was time to go make some money.
Chapter Thirty-Four
When the last Vogt had gone down under a relentless barrage of clubbing strikes, Roland cast aside the remains of his improvised bludgeon. The top third of the now-defunct security android crashed to the floor with a sad, impotent clunk. As it clunked to the floor, the space became eerily quiet for a moment, if one disregarded the hissing, whining, and clicking of the assorted twitching bits of android and drone that littered the offices where the brunt of the fighting had taken place.
The battle had been a strange throwback to his Army days; reminiscent of some of the tight spots the squad had fought in on far-away worlds. He had never really felt fear as his own tech had all but guaranteed his success against the security forces arrayed against him. Although he had to admit, the power armor had been nerve-wracking, as skilled soldiers in good armor were one of the few things that could bring him down under the right circumstances. Roland’s memory of the Armored Corps was replete with concrete examples of how brutally effective a platoon of Heinleins’ Harriers could be. This bunch had (fortunately for Roland) been beneath the standards of an Army Off-World Expeditionary unit by a significant margin.
A quick diagnostic check revealed that he was none the worse for wear, considering the scale of the scrap he had just finished. Surface armor would need at least seven hours to get back to 100%, but all armor was still well above safe operating levels. Structurally he was as close to nominal as he was going to get, considering the last few days’ activities. His shirt was completely gone, of course. They weren’t even lasting long enough to get dirty these days so he was saving money on laundry at least.
Durendal had taken a few direct bead hits in the fray and was well and truly broken. That was disheartening. The weapon was as close to a trusted friend as he had ever known. He was reasonably sure he could repair it given enough time and tools. But for now, it was out of commission. At least it looked like the fight was pretty much over; time to check in and see where Lucia was at.
As a precaution, Roland re-keyed and focused on the scanners that he had been forced to ignore during the frenetic skirmish. Before he could lock in Lucia’s position and status, IFF immediately registered a bogey in the next room.
“Hey, Mungo!” He heard the thing say, “Remember me?”
Roland remembered.
“So, you survived, huh?” Roland’s growl was not overflowing with congeniality, considering the nature of this reunion.
“I did,” Roger’s voice dripped smug amusement, “You won’t.”
“That’s what you said last time,” was Roland’s rejoinder.
That was all the effort the two spared for pre-fight repartee. These two were not big on talking; action suited them much better. With the requisite banter complete, the two titans charged each other without further ceremony.
They collided with a wall-shaking crash, trading blows like steel prizefighters. Roland immediately noted that the taller armature was faster and stronger, but not by the kind of margin that granted significant advantage. Roland, being more machine than anything else, assumed that he was marginally more resilient. Eithe
r way, it looked to be a battle for the ages.
Roland snapped jabs like jackhammers, probing for weaknesses in Roger’s defense. Roger blocked with practiced ease, his years as a fighter evident in the methodical footwork and evasive head movement. Roland pressed forward with hooks to the body and was rewarded when one slipped through and his fist drove into the armored carapace with enough force to make the big armature slide six feet to the side.
Roland tried to capitalize on this with a lashing thai round kick to the knee on that now-undefended side, but Roger’s speed was too much. With lightning speed and casual ease the thug caught his kick in both hands. Snarling, Roger whipped his arms to the side and threw Roland across the warehouse. Roland careered through shelves and racks, scattering parts and supplies in all directions.
“Too slow!” Roger crowed. Then charged his fallen foe.
Roland rose to meet him. The men collided for a second time in the center of the warehouse space, and for a second time a furious exchange of strikes and parries ensued.
Roger got the upper hand again when he snapped a back kick that Roland blocked, but got upended by the force of it, anyway. Roger fell on top of his downed opponent and with a fusillade of furious punches tried to pound that helmeted cranium through the floor.
But Roland was too skilled a wrestler, and Roger could not hold onto his perch atop Roland for more than a few seconds. With a lurch and a heave, Roger was swept off to the side and onto his own back. Soon he was fending off Roland’s methodical attempts at returning the favor.
The armature was sturdy enough to buy the time Roger needed to scramble away, but not before taking more than one savage fist to the faceplate. Both men tried to tackle the other as they rose, and a scramble of entangled limbs followed. Roland’s skill as a wrestler again prevailed, and Roger was again slammed to the deck. The floor of the warehouse, having done all it could to contain the carnage, capitulated under the onslaught. With crackling acquiescence, it collapsed under the two fighters, and both fell through to the lobby below in a tangled and thrashing mess of bionic appendages and blank-yet-snarling faces.
While the brawl was going on, Roland had set the entire suite of sensors at the helmet’s disposal to gather as much data as possible on the thing he was fighting. The data was trickling in slowly as there was nothing in the database to compare it against. When his combat AI compiled the information, the results were strange and more than a little disconcerting.
It had looked like an oversized android, painted white, but the structure was wrong. His helmet AI had pieced together the probable reason for this, and cross-referenced the performance data with all known cyborg configurations. One terrifying configuration had an 89% correlation to the available data set.
Oh no. Oh no no no! Roland could not decide if he felt fear or rage in greater proportion, They couldn’t have!
Underneath the dermal plating of that machine was synthetic musculature almost identical to his own. EM scans showed a complex neural network that had all the hallmarks of his as well, but with several key alterations.
Those bastards! The final insult was yet to come. Inside the machine was the telltale warmth and mass of a person.
They had built a Golem.
Roland could not believe that after all the political and physical fallout from the end of that program, anyone would be stupid enough to revive it. Only a madman would have tried. The realization of what he was facing hit him as he rose again to battle with this twisted vision of what he had once been. Or maybe what he still was. He wasn’t sure anymore.
Fear, sadness, and rage drove Roland into the giant white avatar of his own insecurity with an intensity that startled Dawkins. The armature was driven backwards by a furious barrage of punches and kicks delivered at the full speed and strength at Roland’s disposal.
Roger’s counter attack was instantaneous and vicious. He sent three streaking punches followed by a ferocious round kick to the head. The punches landed unopposed, Roland’s head hardly moved as he tanked the hits deliberately. His rage had him well past subtlety and he ate the punches with stoic indifference because it bought him the sixteenth of a second he needed to step inside the arc of that kick and sweep Roger’s base leg.
Roland followed him down and rained punches on the helmeted skull of his foe. Roger again scrambled, and the big armature’s advantages in speed and power made Roland’s perch atop the machine precarious. With the practiced ease of long experience Roland secured a good grip on Roger’s elbow and transitioned to a side headlock. From here he had a tremendous advantage in leverage, so he held the enormous armature down and immobile long enough to deliver a spitting inquiry:
“Do you even know what they did to you?” Roland had to ask this. His own tortured soul required him to give this poor fool a chance to understand. The chance no one had offered him. No matter how disreputable the thug was, he had the right to know what had likely been done to him.
“Yes,” the faceless head snarled, “they made me a better man.”
“They made you a slave,” Roland’s tone was flat and brimmed with certainty. A certainty that Roger Dawkins recognized.
“What the fuck do you know about it, Roland?” Roger tried to throw his opponent off by showing how much he knew, as if using the man’s given name would convey some sort of advantage. His struggles against Roland’s hold intensified, and the mass of entangled machines skittered along the floor as Roger tried to escape the hold.
“Do a scan, tough guy,” Roland growled through gritted teeth.
Roger frowned inside the helmet, but targeted his scanners directly to Roland’s body. There was nothing there that he had not already determined during the fight. Then Roland continued, still firmly restraining Roger, “Now overlay your own specs, smart guy.”
Curious now, Roger did what Roland said, and the results were a little shocking. Roger, not being the overly intellectual type, needed a moment to sort out what he was seeing. But in a few seconds’ time realization set in. Roger knew it was bad, but the ramifications were not immediately clear to him.
“Well look at that. Seems we’re related! So, what?” Another attempt to shrug Roland off of him got stuffed by the other’s merciless grip.
Roland shook his head, and a devious idea entered his mind. “Here,” he said, and he beamed an encrypted data packet to Roger. Roland waited patiently, maintaining his vice-like grip on Roger’s armored skull and allowing no chance of escape.
Roger scowled when the data packet arrived, afraid to open it, “What the fuck is this?”
“No tricks,” Roland assured, “Just some family history is all.”
Roger’s curiosity got the best of him and he opened the files. It didn’t look like he was going anywhere soon, anyway.
Fucking jujitsu faggots, he thought uncharitably, can’t even manage a proper stand-up fight.
He speed-read the small portion of Roland’s personal history with detached bemusement until he got to the part where the Golem program had turned Roland’s brain off. Roger did not fully understand it, but what he saw made him afraid.
“What the fuck is this?” He repeated. He had no better words for what he saw. It was all he could think to say.
“Your future, pal,” Roland was determined to make the man understand the magnitude of his folly, “If you ever decide to disobey your new masters, slave, they will shut your brain off and drive your body around like cheap drone. If you try any independent action they don’t like? They will stop you.” He gave Roger’s head a bounce off the floor, “You let them into your brain, pal. Now they won’t leave.”
“Bullshit!” Roger cried and finally dislodged the iron grip of his captor. He rose to his feet in triumph but did not press his attack. He wanted, no, needed to deny it all but he couldn’t even believe his own words.
Roland stood slowly, “How much money do you think they spent getting you set up in that rig?” Roland didn’t wait for an answer, “Do you really think Corpus Mundi wil
l ever let you walk away? Do you think they would ever risk a multi-billion-dollar project on a crook like you without a fail-safe?”
The term ‘fail-safe’ stuck in Roger’s mind like a ten-penny nail. Johnson and Fox had used that word when discussing the instability of his mind.
Roger Dawkins had an instant of perfect clarity, and swore out loud, “Shit!”
Roland kept rolling, “There is a piece of software, hidden somewhere in one of your implants, that gives them total control of your body. If you try to have it removed, it will shut your organs off. I watched it happen to two of my friends. Believe that.”
Roger did believe it, there was no lie in Roland’s words and Roger could spot a lie at three hundred yards.
With the hook set, Roland reeled his prey in, “Check my records. The only man who knows how to remove that program is being held prisoner on the fifth floor.”
Despite his lack of intellectual talents, Roger was again putting the pieces of Fox’s machinations together. There was no way Roland had faked the data in that packet; it was too complete and had too much insider information. Not to mention the sheer logic of his argument. Roger was a self-aware guy. He would not have trusted himself with a multi-billion-credit project either. He cursed his lack of foresight on that front.
But what could he do? If Corpus Mundi could kill him with a flick of a switch, he was screwed either way. Unless…
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