There was a crunch of broken glass, and a grimy teenager paused cautiously beside a pile of tattered rags:
“Your tea, sir...”
The trash hissed, and a mutant face emerged. Tirith grinned in displeasure as he sniffed at the unmistakable odor:
“What is that? Poison?”
“No. It's tea. The Councilors drank it every morning. To cheer themselves up, to feel better.”
“You'd think it would have helped them,” the colony's new owner grinned, but he reached down and took the cup gently. He hesitated for a long time but took one cautious sip, then another. Surprisingly, he liked the strange brew from the Downworlders. It tasted like a complex bouquet of herbs from the badlands, and most importantly, it was hot. It was a good way to stay warm after a night spent trapped in steel boxes that had frozen overnight.
Tirith dug into the emptied tin cup with his claw and tossed it back to his slave:
“You were the one who rigged the throwers yesterday, weren't you?”
“I did,” he replied, shifting from foot to foot.
“Why have you come now? Not by choice.”
“The dead Weyrleaders' clerks want to know what to expect of you. They want to know your habits. They want to know how to go on living. Since I was there yesterday, I was chosen.”
“But they didn't go themselves... Cunning. But I do not like sly...”
The mutant rose, glanced at the dimly lit plafond on the ceiling, and then asked again:
“You always tell the truth? I - poorly understand your rules. It seems to me that your whole nest is mad, full of nonsense, tearing each other's tails off, though you could have ruled the wastelands a long time ago. But I can sense when I'm being lied to. Especially when it's dumb meat like you who does it.”
Tirith stepped forward, gripping the teenager by the jacket and sucking in the sharp smell of sour sweat:
“Fear... Fear and hatred. These are your thoughts, your night terrors... But you really are telling the truth. Strange... When I escorted the iron to trade, your merchants stank differently. They stank of hatred and lies... Why don't you lie to me?”
“I'm a technician. I'm not an advisor. I don't know how to talk nicely to people... Or mutants... I only know how to repair hydroponic plants, but I don't know how to trade.”
Covered in short brown fur, it staggered toward the door. A powerful paw tossed the pile of debris out of the way. Already in front of the doorway, the mutant wheezed:
“I was told it was nice and warm here. And here - as on swamps - one damp.”
“The ventilation system's been cut off, so it's freezing.”
“But if you fix it, will it be warm?”
“Of course, it will. Like the beginning of summer - not hot, but not cold either.”
Tirith scratched his chest, thinking of something, and then chuckled:
“So you were chosen to sniff around and make mistakes for others to learn from. Crafty bastards, like all your former masters. Only times have changed. I'm the master now... Oh, I've had a long apprenticeship. Walked with caravans, served the cyborgs, and kept the pack in fear. Now it is time to use what I have learned.”
“Everyone learns,” the teenager wondered at the obvious truth, trying unsuccessfully to wipe dried alien blood from his palms.
“But not everyone uses what they've learned correctly... What's your name?”
The boy flinched:
“I tried to say my name yesterday, so I got beaten up for it. Slaves can't have names.”
“Slaves do. Slaves are stupid cattle who can only work from under a stick. But servants - servants live much better than slaves. Because they serve their masters. Servants, not trying to get away at the first opportunity... What is your name?”
“Asham, my lord.”
“You're a clever one, Ash... You're a quick learner... So that's it. I'll send a wild pack with you. Gather all the men here in the square. All of them. You'll drive them out of the guarded rooms, out of the corridors. You will select from them the brainy ones: who know how to make light, heat, and how produce food. You know who I mean?”
“The technical staff... But a lot of them died yesterday during the battle.”
“I said of those who survived. Separately, you'll show the smart guys from your co-warfare... Those who commanded and who sent to me in the morning. I'll feed the bastards to the hungry guards. I need smart and loyal servants. But I don't want sly bastards who first betrayed their pack and now sing rotten songs behind their backs.”
“But...” the boy was embarrassed, not knowing how to respond to such a suggestion.
“It's simple, Ash. I give you an order; you carry it out. Quickly and well. I ask a question, and you answer. As honestly as you do now. You start lying; you'll be meat for my soldiers. Understand?”
“But you can find food in a warehouse... We could enrich the biomass in the hydroponics plant; it'd be good food. Why eat people? You can teach them something, too. Cleaning up debris or repairing hulls...”
Tirith opened the door and, without looking, snatched one of the mutants dozing outside:
“Get the bald ones; there should be a pack of them around. Get them all in here, now!”
Then the lord of the wastelands turned and looked mockingly at the boy:
“Don't worry; I won't kill everyone. Only a few look too faithfully into my eyes. But it will be you who will take them away. And the others will see that it is you who are helping me to establish a new order. When the pack hates each other and fears the leader - then the pack does not have time to grow a new leader. He'll be killed by his own kind. Or give him to me...”
Stepping outside, the mutant screamed:
“I'm freezing! In my new home - and frozen! And I was promised that it's warm here, that it's well-fed, and I don't have to bang my forehead against the walls in the dark! If I don't get warm and stuffed by nightfall and see the light in every nook and cranny, then my warriors will have eaten plenty of human flesh. Is that clear? You see, Ash, they understand. So move it, find me your sta-a-aff. Those who know how to control the iron. And who wants to eat, not be eaten. And who knows how to be really useful... Don't forget, servants live long, unlike slaves...”
***
A burst of tiny grenades slammed into the stinking cyborg's jets and swelled up in mangled plastic. It thundered, and the guard drone dove down the sand-strewn tunnel. Without waiting for the damned car to retaliate, Carlos hurled a thermite briquette and darted around the side before he could take the faltering Sharra with him. A wave of flame licked up the hastily abandoned passage and was followed by a cloud of smoke.
“The damned Ironmongers had changed their identification codes recently. It's a miracle they had time to pick up the reader.” Hut had changed the clip with shaking hands and gestured for the ‘dog’ to refill his ammo.
“That's alright, but now we're three natives patrolling the perimeter. A sip of water, and let's keep running.”
The lame driver felt his knee, smiled rather pleased, and cautiously put a thin wire to the handheld camera into the corridor:
“What a nimble bastard. Two of them were put down all right, but this clever fellow was flailing about on the ceiling like a rabid mutt in a lairage. Didn't even get the electric pulse right away. I thought it would take us half a day to dig it out.”
“It's obviously old stock, with normal armor plates. So we chiseled while we drilled holes. But maybe it's for the best.”
“What do you mean?” The old man wondered, straightening up to see if the new clips were properly seated.
Carlos glanced at the gray image on the camera screen and stood up, too:
“In my past, it was said that any smoothly started raid could end up in big trouble. But here we are, all cheered up, without a scratch and with working codes to boot. So good luck, comrades. Get the microbot going, and let's go. Let's go, guys. We really did get a little bit of a squiggle going.”
The little robot spider lowered to the floor, wiggled its spindly legs, and darted around the corner. It lay still for a moment beside a smoking drone, blinked a light, and skidded forward, weaving a web of passive antennas on its back. Sharra and his personal laden assistant followed.
Picking up the half-meter long cylinder from the back of his ‘dog’, the squad leader set the mine in the torn ironwork and clicked the buttons. He wiggled his lips, finished the calculation, and clicked the start icon.
“We've got three minutes; charge on unrecoverable. Let's run, Hut, or the guts will only make it to the next turn. Along with the shrapnel.”
“Why so cruel?” The ex-convict was uneasy, changing from step to run, “for we might come to some point and have to go back to find a detour.”
“Maybe we'll have to go back to find a way round. So only forward, any way forward. We'll get to the heating plants and try to get some transport. What difference does it make to the local repair vehicles, whether they carry drones or us? As long as they pay us.”
The old man banked a sharp curve, following the glimpse of Sharra's back. He hesitated for half a minute but couldn't help himself:
“Who do we pay? Repairable ironworkers? With what?”
“Oil, of course. Good word - it's a cat's favor, and the oil can with a gift inscription ... Well, don't worry about it, it's just something I'm feeling; I should feel better soon. Let's move, Hut, quickly, quickly. Before the owners get wind of the visitors...”
***
Her gaze flicked over the skimpy lines once more, and the woman frowned. She'd expected anything, but the message she'd received was unsettling. It was too incredible. One half of her mind was habitually searching for a possible trap, while the other half was already figuring out how to use the wealth that had suddenly fallen on her head.
“Was it true? Or are we being tricked?” Liunna asked again. “It all stinks.”
“Of course, it stinks. Abandoned the base, got away from the mutants, and left the civilians behind. But we ID'd them right. There's a reason we've been hanging out with that midget for so long. He gave the recall codes to Lurg. So the rest of our neighbors' armies are coming to stay with us. They're not really armies, just crumbs.”
“I'd lay down my life for any decent rifleman,” Big Momma snorted. “We ain't got a captured base, full of scum from the countryside, and weapons worn to the bone. Sixty-four men were on raids and with their supplies. Spread them out in small scatterings in our groups, and we could walk to the South Pole.”
“Five. There's sixty-five,” the radio operator objected.
The woman straightened to her two-meter height and mockingly shook her head:
“I'm not out of my mind yet; I remember math. And according to the laws of subtraction, the team must prove the right to a ration under my wing. So the contact in the warriors is Sergeant Barg? Short, square on all sides?”
“Yeah, that's him.”
“That's good. I even saw him a few times when I was walking under the table... Tough guy. But he seemed to have his boys' backs in the squad and didn't let them get hurt... Can you get him on the phone? Just him, directly.”
The man wrapped in a warm jacket grinned:
“I'm not getting my rations from you for pretty eyes, either. In five minutes, I'll make out a canal. Just give me the go-ahead.”
Liunna took out a tiny tape measure, quickly found the necessary marks on the map, and estimated something for herself. Then commanded:
“Work. First the sergeant, then our guys who are in Stellar for now. It looks like they will not have to shoot their neighbors. On the contrary, they will go as guides. I'll even hold back the main column for that. Let the rookies take part in the cleanup. If they get eaten, it won't hurt so much... Let's make the connection...”
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
The short man carefully put cracked earphones on a tiny folding table and thought. Then with a gesture called his assistant and quietly asked:
“Remember what we talked about before we went out? About the future price.”
“I remember. How much are they asking?”
“Fortunately for us, I'd been buddies with her mentor before. He coached me, too, while relations with the neighbors were good. And then he sharpened Big Mama's boys' teeth. The older man left a tough crew behind. I wouldn't be surprised if he managed to teach his stepdaughter how to fight. She's very good at it.”
“How much?” The assistant wasn't at all interested in the sergeant's recollections. He was concerned about a much more pressing question.
“One... How are the others, aren't they going to make a mess?”
“A mess? Are you kidding me? People are like spit on. Everyone understands the price they paid for their lives. With this, we'll be outcasts for the rest of our lives. It makes no difference to the empty talkers where to flail their tongues. We're the ones who end up in this shit.”
Barg put his cap back on, tapped the radio operator on the shoulder, and got out of the high rover which stood by the hill. He walked quietly up the narrow path to his comrades-in-arms, huddled beside the command vehicle. A hand in a knitted glove took his time pulling out a pistol, and the sergeant shot straight into the surprised eyes of the former Army commander. The gun returned to its former position, and the sergeant asked the men who had frozen beside him:
“Big Mama is offering us a job. If we do well, she'll take everyone on equal terms with her fighters. If we shit our pants, we'd better get back in there right now. What do you say?”
“Are you proposing yourself as a commanding officer?”
Their indifferent gray eyes fixed on the clever one and stared at him until the foolish man lowered his head.
“That was the first and only mistake you could have made. The second, you will not be forgiven at Stellar... Remember, neighbors have no commanders. No advisors or other garbage-eating double rations. There's only one master... The mistress... And when she speaks, the others obey. No objection and no delay. So if we do decide to go there, we have already been assigned a commander.”
One of the scouts straightened his machine gun hanging on his chest and asked in a sotto voce:
“What's the job? Cleaning cesspools or going on raids?”
“First to hit the warehouses at the future base. There are all sorts of beasts entrenched there. Then we'll show how well we can fight. If we do well, we'll get the raids... Who wants to refuse? So you won't complain later that you were forced into Stellar.”
When they were certain no one was about to go back to the abandoned house, Barg ordered:
“Take the clothes and weapons off the dead man, leave the body. We move out in five minutes. They're already waiting for us at the designated point.”
Glancing back to the radio operator, the sergeant threw in a weary voice:
“Contact them. Tell them, sixty-four, meet their group tomorrow at noon.”
The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the warm, tiny world from the cold wind outside, and the dead man piled in a snowdrift.
***
“I yelled, "Don't touch the levers; we'll kill ourselves. And he pulls on himself and laughs like a madman! He's never flown before, and here he can pull the levers and fly through the clouds in the breeze. I don't even remember how we landed. I think we were in one piece; we didn't even bend the supports.”
Sympathetically assenting, Krap gave the agitated dwarf a plate with a hot brew and began to serve himself. In the morning, they managed to arrange for Gray's personal pilot to live in a renovated cabin next to the makeshift airfield, a large storage yard cleared of junk. A few barrels of fuel were dragged under the canopy, and a captured mutant, picked up in the wastelands, was lodged in a hastily made booth. The creature, which resembled an overgrown toad, obeyed only its master when he came out and would viciously claw at any stranger who stared into its territory at the first opportunity. It was hard to think of a better guard.
After lunch, the wildling lord, circling around in circles, decided to take his first flight, after which the runt pilot had to be weaned. Not having any knowledge of the rules of flying machines, Gray felt the main thing - he liked to fly. Moreover, the adrenaline storm launched by a couple of aerobatics made the crazy man so happy that he immediately tried to do it himself. Fortunately the luger was kept in good order, so the straining iron was removed from the spin before the aviators hit the snow-covered ground.
Now Too was swallowing mush, scattering crumbs all around him:
“He wants to go to the sky, can you imagine? He says if a lousy stump like me can learn, he can't even be bothered! Demons, we're not going to make it to spring, although there's only a week left...”
“You have to endure for a week. Go a little higher, pilot a little softer... Gray's into the new guy, but not for long. He was so happy at first when they assembled a mad box from a wrecked rover.”
“A box?”
“Yeah. A frame made of pipes. They put an engine in it, springs and wheels as big as a man. It was a great thing. It ate a lot of fuel, but it went over the hills faster than you did under the sky. Just a pile of dust in its wake. Well, I drove it, flipped a couple of times in the heat of the moment. Then he rode out seldom for a month, and then he gave it to the trackers. They raided and intercepted the mutts until they ran into the Irreconcilables. One missile was enough to scatter the flaming guts all around.”
Pausing on his spoon, Too clarified:
“Flipped twice? Well, once's good enough for us. Once we're half a klick in a dive, you ain't even gonna be able to collect it. One hole and smoke upwards, memorial.”
“That's why I tell you to fly carefully for a week, let him get a hole in the clouds up there, and that's enough. Then he'll calm down and yank you out once in a while to visit your neighbors. In half a year, you'll train one of the local rascals, leave a replacement, and retire. You'll leave the replacements to retire.”
Crumpled a cloth which had been lying about and threw it into the corner where Puppy was huddled on a pile of sacks by the window, the Pathfinder Commander. The boy seemed ready to spend all his time next to the wonderful new flying machine. He'd even given up on his unsuccessful advances toward young girls in the newly constructed hospital on the outskirts of town and was now sighing against the cloudy window as he stared at the angular silhouette in the yard.
“Hey, smart-ass! Do you hear what I'm saying? Master's ready to take you in training if you obey.”
“What...?” The young Wasteland scout struggled to comprehend what he was being told; then, a faint uncertain smile appeared on his face. “Krap, are you serious?”
“Stop wasting your pants; it's a shame in front of the medics. They don't kick you out; you're just shining in patches... Stop by Stump, I think he hasn't gone to bed yet. Ask him for me... Do you hear me? To me, not to anybody else! Ask for the flask he's been clucking over this morning. Bring it to me, and we'll wash down your appointment.”
The dwarf carefully scraped out the rest of the porridge and inquired, licking his spoon:
“Is the older one okay with it? He seemed to want to learn.”
“That's what we'll do. So if you get sick or something... He's a great insurance man. He tries to make sure he can find a replacement for anyone. You never know who's going to get sick, and you can't hang them from his ribs. A doctor got whacked once, about twenty years ago, and then they didn't know which neighbor to bow to... Puppy, are you still here?”
Waiting till the front door rattled, Krap sat down nearer and spoke, lowering his voice to almost a whisper:
“Seriously, teach the kid a lesson. Gray will calm down. It's better if he doesn't get any nonsense into His head. Here are the newcomers, with gifts and full understanding. They teach; they don't make any secrets. And in the fall, we'll take you to the medics, gently. The weather, the cold, the bad food at your old job. We'll get you to work indoors. We'll set up good workshops; you've got your hands right. And we'll start preparing equipment.”
“You can't build a luger; it's very difficult.”
“We'd have to master the rovers first. Weapons with more power, like your ice machine guns. And just start training the fighters properly.”
Having picked up a ladle, Too poured some more porridge, then scratched his stiff bristled Adam's apple:
“Is it that bad?”
“We've got a year or two, I suppose. But after that, it'll be a lot more fun. It's not for nothing that the Blinders are on the move; they've been hauling carloads of machine guns and medicine. Looks like sooner or later some uninvited guests will come in from the north. And we'd better meet them with something more serious than spears and bows.”
Tapping his spoon, the former rescue chief chewed, remembering to keep up the interesting conversation:
“Training your boy is not the issue. Flying a luger isn't hard. If he doesn't get carsick on the rover, he'll get the hang of it. What's worse is that the Downworlders won't support you now. No matter how they fought before, they could unite against a common threat. No one likes cyborgs.”
“Who does? Your frakking Council, who leaked the warriors first and then lost the base? Ha! They'd stab us in the back, just to do us harm... Big Mama was a pragmatic bitch. She traded oil with you and with us. But now she's off somewhere with the whole gang. She promised to send a messenger later. So now all we've got is Blinders for artisans and all the Enclaves stretching along the coast. A crowd of wild ragamuffins who can't use a simple rifle.”
The door slammed, letting in an excited Puppy with the cold air. He unloaded a large bottle on the table and gibbered:
“Stump said not to be forgotten; he'll be here soon. I left your mechanic with the doctors; they are picking up some diagnostitian in the morning; they will continue tomorrow.”
“Diagnostician,” Too corrected the guy. Then he realized what he'd heard and looked sullenly at Krap, “Do you know how much a medical unit like that costs? They often have a surgical box to go with it. Though we couldn't scrape together enough money to buy one, though we've often bargained with the subterranean worms for a bargain.”
“Two. Two boxes are already in storage. They promised to send specialists in the summer. Why would they suddenly expand the hospital? The truth is, we tell the Enclaves it's for treating kids and hunters. For all the neighbors, for the sale of the Totems.”
“Yeah. Especially for military field surgery. Just in case a mutant gets a bad shot at lunch... You know, kid, I'm gonna talk to Gray about you tomorrow. As soon as we're out of another corkscrew, I'll throw in the ropes. We'll also talk about workshops, so you can fix a luger not in the street but under a roof. And at the same time, we'll assemble some machines. What won't the Blinders share from their generosity?”
Carefully unscrewing the lid, Krap sniffed the contents of the bottle and suspiciously poured some into his cup:
“They will share. Once we get the power sorted out, we can start assembling. It's like they're all burned up down there, willing to help us out almost unconditionally... Who knows what Stump's up to this time? The last time we started, it took us a week to get out of the booze. I remember lifting the first mug, and then it was like I was cut off. He knows how to make wormwood and alcohol...”
“I have to fly tomorrow!” The dwarf was frightened. “What week?”
“You only have to take a sample. If Gray doesn't get under the clouds, they'll crucify us all. My friend and I will do the thoughtful tasting. It's too early for the Puppy... But don't worry about the workshops. We already gave you the warehouses. That's where you'll get your turn. If the ironhead miners are telling the truth, they've got a couple or two lugers scattered around in the open vault. We'll cry, complain about life, and get at least one. Or even all of them. Where would they fly underground?”
Dwarf scraped out the remains of gruel, poured the remains of tea from a crumpled mug, and resolutely handed his container to Krap:
“Come on, let's try it... And we'll start making rovers in summer. Something I have a feeling that events ran too fast. We'll have to be a step ahead. And with machine guns and wheels for them...”
Tipping the bottle, the pathfinder began to pour the drink, which acutely hissed in the nose with liquor:
“That's all right; we'll fight back. They've been trying to destroy us for so many years, and we only sneer harder and harder... It was Stump who made the mistake of coming in later. He's the one who won't get a drop... Well, here's to Puppy flying as well as you, Too...”
***
“If you can think of any other good deeds, don't forget to tell us,” Hut asked as he draped his legs over her ‘dog’. “It was a good rides, I wish they'd kept it up.”
In four hours, the group had made it to a large transport pipeline. They used up almost all their explosives, making their way through the tunnels and blasting holes in the tunnels behind them. Once inside the ventilation shaft, they spent over an hour looking out for the independent group of repair robots that occasionally flickered nearby. The allotted time was slowly running out, but Carlos could not decide what exactly he was looking for. One day he did not like the cyborg guards and suddenly stuck his nose in a string of cars approaching the train. Or he grinned at the polished sides of overgrown ants stomping past, muttering about new firmware and complicated coding algorithms. Minutes fled, and the commander of the group listened to something visible only to him.
“Yes, let's go!” The trained body suddenly tumbled down from the finely netted hatch. “Come on, boys, let's go!”
A box, blinking with a scattering of lights, rested on the body of a metal centipede rattling its joints along the corridor. Braking for a second, the repair robot skidded to a halt and turned toward the wide tunnel. The faithful ‘dog’, who had spent more than half its weight during the four-hour run, jumped heavily to the floor, following its master.
“Blinders had similar units. Minimal protection, rudimentary commands. Picking up trash, scrap, and junk in the aisles. There's her container over there. We're in; the caterpillar's on top. There's one of the recycling points two kilometers from the bunker. We'll get off in front of it, but in the meantime, get in, quick!”
Hut and Sharra ducked into the open hatch, followed by the robotic helpers. They jammed a few blobs of foam adhesive onto the control box, and then Carlos climbed into the rusting container, closing the creaking lid behind him. Rattling its paws, the millipede settled into a diagonal chute extruded next to a murky streetlight near the left front corner. The electric motors under the floor clicked, and the half-full of debris moved forward, joining the sparse chain of miscellaneous units running about their business.
With a small clipboard in front of them, the saboteurs peered at the faded picture of the world around them. A green triangle crawled slowly across the map drawn on the side of the shifting panorama, occasionally turning at intersections of corridors. Tiny numbers flashed, showing the distance to the target. Beside it a radiation background marker glowed a red bar.
“Look, it's not bad protection so far. I thought we'd get beam when we came in,” said Hut, surprised as he scrambled to make a sort of rocking couch out of the garbage.”
“Why should it? We were bombed eighty years ago, if not more. We're underground, about 300 meters below the surface. And we're not in the epicenter; we're circling it. Cyborgs don't like unnecessary X-rays either. So - you can't run here without protection at all, but so far, we have not got too much. The second bunker is situated on the side, so the background radiation should be minimal there.”
“It means we should still wear a mask. I wish I could get rid of it soon, or I wouldn't even be able to scratch properly.”
Carlos checked his watch and frowned:
“The important thing is that the natives don't scratch it. The scramble should be over by now. Three hours after the charges went off, an hour ago, the reprogrammed robots clashed at the edge of the neighborhood. I'm afraid they should be looking for us by now, but so far, it's been surprisingly quiet. Either the camouflage has worked perfectly, or the owners are dumber than we think...”
The arm's claw twisted the wreckage and lifted the twisted piece of metal. The machine spun the remains of the wrecked drone before its faceted camera eyes and tossed it away. Fifteen minutes ago, a perfectly armed squad had descended upon the squabbling alien cyborgs. The unknown assailants were shooting at one another, jamming the frequencies with incomprehensible messages, and interfering in every way with the smooth functioning of the defenses of an area long inhabited by the Irreconcilables. So first, the armored monsters came in from the sides of the outsiders and rolled them into dust, and then an order passed through all points on the outer perimeter: to re-inspect the routes and report possible abnormal situations. After replenishing their ammunition, the assault teams scattered into every nook and cranny of the problem area.
The cyborg reported on the destroyed patrol drone and moved along the corridor. He managed to find a second and rolled to a third when the smart mine program decided that an alien in its territory was capable of attacking first and causing critical damage. The trigger went off, generating a tiny man-made sun, and thousands of small steel and hardened ceramic balls exploded around it, smashing the alien armor and plastic walls.
The explosion tossed the mangled, angular figure aside, breaking off its manipulators and bending its hull in the opposite direction. Though the robot ceased to function as a combat-ready unit, its armor-clad internals had time to assess the danger and send a distress signal to the nearest roadblock. Alarms ran through the mechanical city's extensive neural net, screaming: ‘Intruder alert! Intruders in the restricted area’!
The container braked sharply and began shifting to the right, closer to the wall that flashed past. The caterpillar driver unleashed a series of clicks, slowing more and more. A clipboard connected to her cameras showed the bright specks of spotlight streaming in toward her. The armada of armored vehicles swept through the tunnel, speeding up with each passing second.
“I told you it was too quiet. It wasn't right. We've been poking around in the local guts for so long, and the natives have only just begun to notice. It's a shame, no respect,” Carlos grinned as he turned off the screen. “Well, good morning, gentlemen cogs...”