C. Cargill - Sea of Rust

“Reilly’s dead, you idiot.” Then he got loud again, volume cranked to MAX. “Brittle! You ain’t gettin’ out of here! Not walking anyhow! Don’t make me damage parts I can use later! You ain’t walking out of here! You hear me? ”

I did. But I wasn’t going to dignify him with a response. If only one of us was walking out of here, I damn sure wasn’t going to give him an edge. And if it wasn’t going to be me, well then, I was going to take a page from Vic’s book.

Either I was walking out of here, or none of us was.

And for that, I needed to get to the east wing.

“Brittle?” he called out again.

I gave him nothing and let him choke on it.

Sundown was fast approaching, which meant I was getting closer to the cover of night. Mercer was fitted for a night chase—night-sight mods, IR, echolocation—but even all that gear couldn’t spot the dust of a buggy from a couple miles out in the dark. He was running out of time, which meant he was no doubt getting desperate. And if he was desperate, he might make a mistake or two.

And that’s what I needed. He’d already made one mistake. Another could set me free. A third might even earn me a clean shot at him.

“That way!” he boomed in my direction.

He was right. Must have had hearing mods every bit as good as mine, if not better. Probably could hear each nearly silent step I took.

I could hear the running footsteps behind me, echoing hollow through the empty like a wrench banging against pipe. They were still one floor up, not even trying to hide their pursuit.

I was steps away from turning into the east wing when I heard the clangor of Mercer’s companion whipping around the railing from the third floor and flipping down to land like a cat on the second. I’d been right—he was military grade—a field-specced Simulacrum Model designed to fight alongside Special Forces. Sniper mods, agility and speed enhancements, full sensor array. A sick amount of gear on a titanium body built to sustain heavy fire while its unit either advanced to engage or retreated to evac; a sonar/radar package in its chest in the event its reinforced optics suffered damage or immersion in total darkness. Those things were among the toughest bastards around. And this one was scrambling to his feet, steadying his rifle, ready to glaze me with a shock of EMP.

It would take a tank shell to smash apart that torso. Blowing its head off wasn’t going to save my life either.

I had very few options left.

The pulse rifle jumped in my hand, the bolt screaming out through the dim hallway.

The blast struck true, his rifle shattering to pieces in his hand, ammo exploding, sparks sizzling against his titanium frame.

Undeterred, he charged headlong at me without hesitation.

I fired again from the hip, loosed a pulse toward the ground, the shot clipping his kneecap, right in the joint. He spun on his toe, his leg giving out from under him.

I slipped to the side with a half spin of my own, his heavy body, almost four times heavier than my own, sailing past me, unable to regain his footing so quickly. The shot wouldn’t cripple him for long.

Behind me glass shattered, metal buckling, bending under the weight of the bot. I could hear him struggle to his feet, the servos in his knee already compensating, his gyro readjusting to set him upright, allowing him to run normally, despite the damage.

But by the time he was on his feet, I had made it. The east wing.

Just a few more paces, I kept repeating to myself. Just a few more paces.

Ahead of me were dilapidated toy stores, an empty cheese shop, and a hollowed-out hole that had been hit by so much fire that its wares and purpose were now entirely unrecognizable. It was the safest place in all the mall. At this moment.

For me, at least.

I could hear him tearing after me. Could hear his footfalls clattering. Could hear his servos and gears whirring into place to tackle me from behind.

I turned, raised my pulse rifle, prayed that it had at least one more shot in it.

He rounded the corner.

His feet skidded across the marble, trying to get enough grip to slow his momentum. He slipped a bit, catching himself on the railing before coming to a complete stop. He looked up, eyeing my gun.

We traded glances in silence, him waiting for me to shoot, me waiting to see what, exactly, he intended to do next.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked.

“Well, I was thinking about shooting you.”

“You tried that already.”

“I did,” I said, nodding.

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Got me where I needed to be.”

“Is there even any ammo left in that thing?”

“I was just fixing to find out.”

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Same thing you are,” I said. “Mercer.”

He raised a clenched fist in the air and let out a stern chirp. “Hold back!” he called out. “Your mark’s up to something.”

“Am I?”

“You are,” he said, trying to puzzle it out. He eyed me up and down, sizing me up.

“Why don’t you just come and get me? You know, just take another step or two forward.”

He looked down at the ground, trying to see what he’d missed. Then he looked back up at me. If he could smile—which military-grade bots could not—he would have. You could just hear it dripping in his voice. He was so proud of himself. “You’re bluffing. You’ve got nothing.”

“Not down there I don’t.”

I popped my Wi-Fi and let out a 4.5 MHz trill. I doubt the bot was listening. Most bots were smart enough not to have their Wi-Fi connection open unless they were specifically scanning for OWIs. And even then, they didn’t listen in on a bevy of bands, only the high-chatter ones. What he no doubt did hear, however, was the sound of the thermite drilled into the concrete and marble of the massive walkway one level above us, each stick of it connected to a Wi-Fi receiver set to, you guessed it, 4.5 MHz.

The thermite slagged the stone around it instantly. He had just over a second to take in, respond, and avoid several tons of solid cement and rock.

He barely had time to flinch before it hit him.

There would be no parts left to salvage, no light left in his eyes, titanium be damned. Now all he was was a military-grade pancake. Nothing more.

Part of me wished I’d managed to wait for Mercer, and hadn’t tipped my hand when I did. But Mercer was full of good parts, parts that would work in me. Maybe flattened under a sheet of rubble wasn’t the best way to see him go.

“Charlie?” called Mercer.

No answer.

“Charlie Bravo?”

“Nope,” I called back. “It’s just you and me, Mercer. It is just you and me, right?”

“Well, I don’t know, Britt. Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t.”

“You’re running out of friends.”

“Ain’t that always the way of it?”

“I suppose it is.”

“So, how are we going to do this?” he called out, still out of sight.

“I was thinking maybe I’d shoot you.”

“Not with that gun, you’re not.”

“Still trying to get in my head about that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I am.”

“Well, if there aren’t any shots left in this thing, there’s no reason for you to stay hidden. Why don’t you come on out and shoot me face-to-face?”

“Maybe because I’m not sure how many more of those booby traps you’ve got in here.”

“I’m pretty sure that was the last one.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“Same reason I don’t believe you about this gun,” I said.

“Go ahead and pull the trigger. Find out for yourself.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll pull this trigger when you step out and we’ll both find out who’s full of shit.”