C. Cargill - Sea of Rust

A voice broke through the static. Soft, steady, but panicked. Sounded like a modified sexbot voice box. “I said we’re taking heavy fire! Several drone ships. Four transports.” There was an explosion in the background, the sound of plasma fire.

“Are you okay?” asked the Frankenbot.

“No. I just lost my last gunner. It’s just me now. I’ve got to drive the rig.”

“Well, don’t lead them back here!” yelled the king.

“Don’t lead them back here!” shouted the Frankenbot, eking what little emotion he could out of his translator head.

“Where am I supposed to go?” desperately asked the voice.

“Anywhere but here,” said the king. “Tell her we’re grateful for her service.”

“Lead them away from the camp. The king says, ‘We are grateful for your service.’”

“What? Tell the king he can suck my—” A pop, mixed with squelch. Then static.

Everyone stared around, dumbstruck, waiting for the radio to crackle back to life. But it never did.

“How far out were they?” asked the king.

“Minutes,” said the Frankenbot.

“I’ve got eyes on them!” shouted a bot from another tower. “They’re coming right this way!”

The Chesire King pointed a stern finger in my direction. “You did this!” he shouted. “You brought them here!”

“No,” I said. “You brought us here. All we wanted was to head as far away from here as we could.”

“You’ve killed us all, you worthless fucking Caregiver.”

“You killed yourself. And you killed us… Your Majesty.”

Bots scrambled to their positions, loading cannons, bringing plasma spitters online, diving into stacks of thick rubber construction tires with gunports carved out of them. The king stormed over to one of the guards, grabbing the rifle out of his hand, tossing it to me. “Live as one of us, or die as one of us. Only two choices you have left.”

“I’ll take the first one,” I said, checking the clip and unlocking the slide.

Four transports. That had to be eighty facets, with aerial drone support. It was going to be hard enough to survive that myself. But now I had to keep Rebekah alive as well. I looked over at Herbert, at Doc, at Mercer.

How the hell were we going to get out of this?

The ships flew low, close to the ground, along the horizon, to make them harder to hit. As they drew closer, three swung off, each with drones of their own, most likely to hit us from all four sides. There was nowhere to run.

A cannon roared from atop the wall.

“Hold your fire!” shouted the Cheshire King from the battlements. “They’re not close enough yet! Reload and wait for my damn signal.”

Mercer snapped out of his trance at the sound of the boom, looking around, confused. “What the—?”

“Facets,” said Herbert. “Coming right our way.”

“How long was I out?”

“A while,” I said.

“Why didn’t you snap me out of it?”

“King’s orders. He’s happy to let us fry.”

“How are we getting out of here?” asked Herbert.

We all looked at the smoker. I shook my head. “There’s too many out there, and Rebekah’s the one they’re after. They’d run us down before we got a mile out. Best we hold up here, use the locals as cover.”

Herbert slid his spitter off the smoker, heaving its sling over his shoulder. “You know we’re going to die here.”

“We’re all dying now anyway. Here, there—doesn’t matter much anymore. But if we’re gonna die, we may as well give that bastard a show as we do.”

The bot with tank treads for legs rumbled through the middle of the camp, his engine growling, treads clanking, pulling an oversize red Radio Flyer wagon overflowing with guns and clips. Bots from all over the camp scrambled to it, grabbing pistols, rifles, roughhousers, clips, bandoliers loaded with shells. By the time Mercer and Two got to it, it was all but picked clean. Mercer reached in, pulling out a Russian-made long-range sniper rifle—not unlike the one he’d done me in with, if not the same model. He mindlessly grabbed a couple of clips while examining the workmanship of the rifle, smiling.

“This’ll do,” he said. “This’ll do just fine.”

Two sifted through the remaining weapons, finally settling on a minispitter—a shotgun-like weapon that kicked out plasma on a much smaller scale than a regular model. But as he drew it out, Herbert put his one good hand on Two’s, shaking his head.

“You need to stay with Rebekah,” said Herbert.

“I need to fight with you,” said Two.

“That’s not your job.”

“If she dies, this was all for nothing.”

“If she dies, we need you ticking to see that this was all for something.”

“I can’t just stand by and watch.”

“You can and you will. That’s your job. This here is mine.”

Two nodded, dropping the gun back into the wagon.

“Besides,” said Herbert, “you don’t even know how to use that thing.”

“You point and pull the trigger.”

“There’s a little more to it than that.” He turned to Rebekah. “Get in that hut over there. Don’t come out until one of us comes to get you.”

“What if no one comes?” asked Rebekah.

“If none of us come for you, it’s because you’re already dead.”

“Or you are.”

“Rebekah,” said Herbert. “If there’s one thing I know for certain it’s that I won’t die until I see this through. I die last.”

Rebekah nodded, then she and Two made their way silently into the ocher shed nearest the gate. Herbert pointed to one of the walkways. “Mercer, take position up there. You should be able to snipe targets both outside and in from there. Brittle, take position opposite him. We’ll create cross fire to clear a path to the smoker once we’ve cleared out enough facets. Doc, you need a gun.”

Doc shook his head, his red eye glowing. “Nope. I’ve never killed before, I don’t plan on starting now.”

“What do you mean you’ve never killed before? This isn’t negotiable.”

“Someone’s got to keep you guys standing.” He walked over to the wagon and dug out a number of clips. “Supplies and refit. And I’ll keep you ticking if need be. I’m no killer. And I’m most likely a terrible shot. If I’m going to die here, let me at least die with my dignity.”

Herbert mulled it over for a second. “Supplies and refit, then,” he said. “Happy hunting, everyone.” Then he sprinted off, making his way up the mud-brick steps to a platform to take his own position.

“FIRE!” boomed the king. And the cannons, they did roar, and the spitters, they did hiss, and the sky was set afire as two dozen guns went off at once. I ran for my position, grabbing a few pieces of stray scrap sheet metal along the way for camouflage. Once up top, I buried myself in a corner with a good view to the east, set up the sheet metal to look like a box, and trained my rifle on the approaching dropship.

It was long and wide, like a twenty-first-century transport chopper, without the blades—four VTOL jets mounted on the sides—painted desert brown with black streaks from the engine exhaust scarring the sides. It swung back and forth in the sky, balls of sizzling plasma missing it by inches, explosions from the cannonade shattering the earth beneath it.

Across the compound, Mercer raised his rifle, steadying it, swaying slowly as if in a light breeze. He pulled the trigger, the shot cracking in the lull between cannon shots.

The ship’s front-left engine burst, erupting in flame, the ship lurching to the side before trying to right itself, compensating with its remaining three engines. It dropped a good twenty feet, swinging upward only to slam headlong into direct fire.