Ballistic rounds continued to pound the underside of the catwalk. Evidently, the acolytes kept plenty of spare ammunition tucked away in those robes of theirs.
“We could try blowing up the machinery,” said Klik. “Maybe it won’t kill them, but it might keep them distracted long enough for us to escape.”
“It’s not like in the holo-flicks you watch,” said Jack. “Things don’t explode just because you shoot at them. Besides, if we can’t hit a person with these guns, what chance do we have of igniting a bloody fuel pump?”
Klik let out an indignant grunt.
“Fine. Sorry I said anything. I guess we just keep shooting at them and hope for the best, then.”
The sorry whine had disappeared from Jack’s gun, which Jack guess meant the fusion coil (or God knew what else – it could have been a double-A battery as far as he was concerned) inside had sorted itself out. He pointed it at one of the acolytes and pulled the trigger. For once, the laser went roughly where it was supposed to. Jack let out a quiet cry of triumph as it hit one of the madmen square in the chest, burning a hole through his black robes and knocking him flailing onto the floor beside the dead Ghuk.
The other acolyte took a surprised look at his fallen brother as if he were only then learning what happened when you were on the other end of a bullet. Then he started shooting at the catwalk again… a little bit higher, this time.
Weirdly higher, actually.
“How tall does that nut job think we are?” asked Tuner, taking advantage of the opportunity to crawl along the catwalk and join the others. “He’ll never hit us if he carries on like this. Not that I’m complaining, of course…”
The most accurate of the acolyte’s shots cracked the safety-lock keeping one of their walkway’s cables attached to the ceiling. The entire catwalk sagged and groaned. The other cables along its length started to creak from the strain.
“Oh no,” said Jack, as it dawned on him what the lunatic had planned. “Forget cover. Everybody get back to the door, now!”
But they never even got the chance to stand up. The acolyte shot out a second safety-lock, and the whole bridge came tumbling down.
Well, part of it did. Specifically, the part beneath Jack’s feet.
The catwalk cracked in half. The side closest to the door remained intact, hanging nonchalantly on its supports as if nothing untoward was happening to the rest of it. But one by one all of the other cables snapped, and in an order that resulted in the rest of the metal walkway swinging downwards and sideways like a jungle rope bridge with one of its ends cut. Each of the floor panels tore loose and crashed into the machinery below. Klik and Rogan managed to grab hold of a couple of rogue cables lashing about and were flung against the stone wall opposite.
Jack and Tuner weren’t so lucky.
Tuner plunged into a receptacle of defunct automata parts with a painful clang. Jack mercifully landed on a spot of blank factory floor not far from the dead engineer. Not so mercifully that he didn’t have the wind knocked out of him, however. He lay there, groaning, and stared up at the now empty ceiling through the growing fog of a migraine.
The sound of labour-intensive metalwork got his attention.
He rolled onto his side and quickly stashed his impending migraine away to be fully appreciated later. The acolyte had dragged Tuner out from the receptacle and was proceeding to batter the little guy with an LX-14 forearm. Tuner’s tiny outstretched hands weren’t strong enough to stop it.
“Hey!” Jack staggered to his feet. “Get away from him, you bastard!”
The acolyte dropped the spare limb in surprise and legged it behind a massive primer machine. Jack sprinted after him.
“Yeah you’d better run, coward,” he muttered breathlessly. “I’ll teach you not to pick on someone your own size.”
Jack wilfully ignored the fact that the assailant was about half a foot taller and, simply on the basis of averages, most likely stronger than him.
He rounded the corner only to discover the acolyte standing quite calmly on the other side – calmly compared to Jack, at least – and holding out his snub-nosed pistol at waist height. Jack reached down for his pathetic excuse for a laser rifle and realised he’d dropped it when the catwalk fell.
In the shadow of his hood, the acolyte broke into a satisfied smile. It looked so unhinged, it threatened to fall off his face altogether.
“Now hold on a second,” said Jack, raising his hands and taking a step backwards. “Let’s talk this through.”
“For the First Diakonos,” the acolyte declared with a mad titter, tilting his gun upwards slightly so that it pointed at Jack’s head. “May the fires spread and from the ashes the galaxy grow anew.”
“Wait!” Jack winced. “You don’t—”
There was a sudden wet smack where Jack expected a gunshot to be. The acolyte’s reptilian eyes glazed over as if he were staring at a point past Jack’s shoulder, and then he collapsed face-first onto the floor with a dull thump.
Tuner stood behind the madman, wielding the detached automata arm like a club. He continued to bludgeon the black-robed lump with it.
“How do you like getting dented?” he shouted at the body. “Not much fun, is it?”
Jack stepped over the mess and pulled the scrappy automata away from what remained of the acolyte.
“Okay, okay. I think he’s done.”
“I’m just making sure he won’t get up again,” said Tuner, dropping the bloody robot-limb.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s much chance of that. I don’t think anyone could even pick him up again. Not without parts of him falling through their fingers.”
Footsteps came running down the aisle towards them. Jack grabbed the acolyte’s pistol and spun around, then relaxed when he saw it was just Klik and Rogan.
“What in the galaxy happened here?” asked Klik.
“It was self-defence,” said Tuner, shrugging. “Well, the first hit was. After that it was just deserts.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Rogan, staring around the factory in alarm. “Did anyone see where that Archimandrite person went?”
“Away from us,” said Jack, brushing dust and dirt off his spacesuit. “Why does it matter?”
“LX-14s are built for war,” she said urgently. “They’re a military strike-force substitute for species who don’t want to sacrifice their own kind on the battlefield. Though any army whose budget only stretches to these models isn’t very likely to win, to be honest.”
Jack shrugged.
“So what?”
“So I hardly think this Archimandrite plans on stealing a bunch of copper killing machines just so he can send them out as peacekeeping envoys, that’s what!”
“He mentioned preparing the freighters for departure,” Klik said enthusiastically. “I bet he went to the hangars.”
“If not, that’s where we’ll find the rest of his followers,” said Tuner. “I bet they’re all going to the same place anyway.”
“The rest of his followers?” Jack sighed. “Was almost getting killed by the first two not enough?”
“The hangars are that way,” said Rogan, pointing back in the direction they came. A lot of broken factory machinery lay in their way. “Or it said so on the map, at least. Bolts. We could really do with one of the workers right about now.”
Jack had an idea, briefly considered keeping it to himself in the hope that everyone would give up on this mad crusade and head back to the safety of the Adeona, and then remembered how he needed to be supportive of his friends. His conscience got the better of him.
“There’s an easy way to find the hangar, you know.”
Rogan crossed her arms and eyed Jack suspiciously.
“Yes? And what is that, exactly?”
Jack pointed at the rail above their heads.
“We just need to follow the bodies.”
7
Foreign Contaminants
The lifeless LX-14s swung back and forth on their hoo
ks as they plodded along the production rail, their arms hanging limp by their sides yet their heads upright as if alert. In reality, of course, they were totally senseless… for now. Jack and the rest of the Adeona’s crew followed them from Chamber 3 back into the “Bridge” and then the shipping corridors beyond.
These corridors were as narrow and claustrophobic as all the rest, which made the decibel level almost too much for Jack to take. They had to race along narrow gangways to keep up with the combat automata passing along the rail only inches to their left – who knew when the acolytes might shut production down and take off from the hangar with their stolen strike force? Each time they reached a security door they had to wait impatiently while Tuner convinced its mechanism to unlock.
In one corridor, the production rail and conveyor belt ran side by side, marrying each LX-14 with its designated firearm. A series of large, robotic arms swivelled back and forth between the two lines, snatching up rifles and stamping them into the inert automata’s hands. The systematic screeching and thudding was unbearable.
Finally, they reached a door that no amount of hacking would open. This one the devout pirates really had welded shut.
Rogan punched the busted door in frustration. She almost left a dent.
“Bolts. So much for following the bodies, Jack. How are we supposed to make our way to the hangar now?”
Catching his breath and wishing he could reach inside his helmet to wipe away the sweat running down his forehead, Jack stared around the tight corridor in search of one of his famous bad ideas.
Against his better judgement, he found one.
“The LX-14s,” he gasped, his hands on his knees. “We can ride them into the hangar. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”
“Probably because it’s a terrible idea, even for you.” Rogan tilted her head and anxiously watched the automata roll by. “We’d get another arm drilled onto our head, or something.”
“I don’t know,” said Tuner, shrugging hopefully. “All of the production seems to be done by now. Look, they’ve even been given a quick clean. That’s a nice touch.”
“It’s that or turn back and look for a different route,” said Jack. “Whatever you want. It’s up to you.”
“Bye, guys.” Klik smiled and waved innocently at them as her chosen LX-14 carried her through the black and bristly partition further along the rail. “See you on the other side.”
“Oh, goddammit.” Jack growled in frustration. “I guess it’s up to Klik, then.”
The three of them clambered across the empty conveyor belt – by this point, the guns had all been allocated to their respective automata – and each grabbed hold of a different LX-14. Or tried to, at least. Tuner couldn’t reach high enough, so in the end Rogan had to pull him up onto hers. Jack rode his as if he were a human rucksack.
Even though he wore a helmet, he couldn’t help squinting as the bristles of the partition brushed over him just as they had Klik and all the other yet-to-be-activated automata. He guessed they were meant for sweeping away any dust or foreign contaminants. They weren’t strong enough to knock him loose, though.
They rode the LX-14s into a much darker hallway beyond.
“You there, Klik?” Jack called out, hoping that the young insectoid was the only one who could hear him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Klik sounded as if she was second-guessing her impulsive decision. “Something keeps prodding me, though. A machine, not a person. It’s a bit weird.”
“Some kind of quality control device, maybe?” Jack wished his helmet’s night-vision filters would hurry up and kick in. “Just keep calm and, erm, try to avoid it if you can.”
“No, Jack. I’m going to try and get prodded more if I can.”
Jack’s vision slowly improved. There was no way to see the pedestrian walkway from inside their tight tunnel, so Jack guessed they would have lost visibility – and therefore lost track of the LX-14s – even if they had managed to get the welded door to open. Perhaps this was one of his rare good ideas after all.
He let out a yelp of surprise as something tickled his ribs. It wasn’t an inspector unit, luckily – if it had been, the whole production line would have likely ground to a halt. Jack Bishops weren’t exactly standard Cyclone Manufacturing accessories. But they had to be some kind of scanning equipment, at least.
“You all right back there?” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “I don’t suppose either of you know—”
Something blunt slammed into the back of his hand while he wasn’t looking.
“Ow!”
He brought his glove closer to his helmet. The insignia of Cyclone Manufacturing was rather clearly stamped onto the back of it.
“Watch out, guys,” he yelled back. “There’s some kind of branding going on up here.”
“Bolts alive,” he heard Tuner shout back. “The last thing we need is to be associated with this line of automata.”
Jack heard a lot of frantic scrambling behind him. The tunnel grew brighter up ahead. He spotted the silhouette of Klik’s LX-14 as it disappeared through a doorway of white, artificial light and wished there was a way she could pull over and wait for him to catch up.
Jack passed through the blinding glare after her and squinted as everything swam back into focus.
Well, he guessed they’d found the hangar.
It was enormous and outdoors, just how Jack expected. It needed to be, of course – the sort of Negoti freighters that docked here were far too massive to swing themselves into a regular port. There were two freighters present, instantly recognisable from the giant Negoti insignias painted across their hulls. Each was little more than a colossal, iron rectangle with an almighty cluster of thrusters stuck on one end. They served no purpose aside from shipping stock from one side of the galaxy to the other. They didn’t need any bells and whistles, especially when the stock came from Cyclone Manufacturing. Right now they were being prepared for departure by the twin cranes flanking the rear of the facility.
“Down here!” Jack heard Klik whisper.
He looked towards her voice. Klik was standing on a wide, steel fire escape a few metres directly below his feet. He let go of his LX-14, landed on the metal staircase with a clang, and fell onto his backside. Rogan and Tuner dropped down not long after.
Jack stood up and studied the back of his hand with growing disappointment.
“Does this mean I belong to the Negoti Corporation now?” He tried rubbing the logo off to no avail. “I mean, look at this. Will it come out in the wash, you reckon?”
Tuner put his hands on what amounted to his hips and shook his head.
“No, you’re official Cyclone property now. How much do you think we can get for him at Tortaiga Square, Rogan?”
“Be quiet, both of you.” Rogan aggressively beckoned for them to crouch down beside her and Klik. “Have you idiots forgotten where we are?”
Embarrassed, Jack and Tuner shut their mouths and hurried into cover.
“Quite the operation this Archimandrite fellow has got going,” said Rogan, peering over the edge of the fire escape. “The whole hangar’s crawling with his weird, hooded friends.”
She wasn’t exaggerating, besides the crawling part. Though Jack couldn’t see much beyond their black robes, all of the group’s members were quite humanoid in size and shape. Or bipedal, at least. Even the maddest and most apocalyptic of cults weren’t immune from a little discrimination, it seemed.
“Any idea where their boss went?” asked Jack.
“He could be on either one of those freighters,” Rogan replied, the apertures of her eyes diluting and retracting as she scanned every inch of the hangar. “Or neither, come to think of it. He would have needed his own ship to get here in the first place.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad we’ve narrowed it down to two options. On a freighter, or literally anywhere else in the universe. Fantastic.”
The acolytes were loading the last of the LX-14s into the
second of the two freighters. Still yet to be activated, the automata had to be manually pulled off their rail-hangers and shepherded up the ramp on the back of a flat-bed shuttle. Jack noticed there weren’t any more units coming down the rail behind them.
“Let’s get down there and take a closer look,” said Rogan. “Agreed?”
“Sure,” said Klik, shrugging indifferently.
“You bet,” said Tuner. “I want to know where they’re shipping our brothers-in-arms off to.”
Jack sighed and followed them down. It didn’t matter what he thought. The way back was welded shut and the fire escape was his best route back down to the Adeona anyway.
They reached ground level about thirty seconds later, by which point the last of the LX-14s had been loaded and most of the acolytes were closer to the freighters than they were the factory building. Their group crept behind a towering set of refuelling pumps and watched the ships from afar.
“Hmm, yes.” Jack nodded with fake enthusiasm. “Much better view from here. Good suggestion, Rogan. Now can we go back to Adi and call this in? The sooner we let the Ministry know, the sooner they can do something about it.”
“Let them know what, exactly?” Rogan hissed impatiently. “That someone is stealing Cyclone Manufacturing’s property? Sure, the Ministry would probably send somebody. Negoti definitely would. But the freighters and the LX-14s will be long gone by the time anyone gets here. As it stands, we still don’t know anything useful.”
“We have a name,” said Jack. “The Archimandrite. Maybe somebody will know who he is!”
“I hadn’t heard of him.” Rogan raised a snooty eyebrow. “I doubt any of the ministers will have heard of him, either.”
A almighty, trollish roar stopped Jack before he could reply. The whole left side of the hangar was suddenly cast in a throbbing, electric blue light as one of the freighters ignited its immense set of thrusters. Jack’s visor dimmed automatically, but he still couldn’t look directly at the ship. It was like trying to stare at a huddle of miniature white dwarf stars.
The Tin Soldiers (Final Dawn, Book 5) Page 6