Followed by groaning and screaming, the android faced gate C; he jerked it open and got into a corridor, illuminated by a flashing red light that denounced him as an unwanted guest.
INTRUDER. INTRUDER. INTRUDER, a synthesized voice repeated.
“Battalion fifty-two and fifty-three, go to corridor C,” ordered the woman’s voice over the speakers.
New squadrons of men dressed in olive green broke through the corridors. Turning the corner, they stumbled upon the intruder and stopped cold. The intruder continued as if they didn’t exist; soon, they wouldn’t. The soldiers raised their weapons and fired a hundred discs of annihilation that flew toward the enemy. No shot reached him, though; the lasers’ light essences dissolved before touching him.
“No Cyclops can do that!” another soldier remarked, and before he and his comrades could begin another round of gunfire—as if reaffirming his uniqueness—the android emitted a loud beeping sound that caused the rifles to sizzle. Clicks and clacks sounded, but no weapon worked again; the guns that worked with ammo got jammed, and those that emitted lasers had short-circuited.
“I came looking for what is mine,” the A60-R8 said and silence fell over the corridor; only his synthetic voice rumbled between the walls. “Do not stand in my way, and no one else is going to die.”
“This is Commander Dubhe,” it sounded through the speaker. “Identify yourself, android. Report your license code and we’ll be able to consider your—”
“I am sorry. I have no time,” the A60 interrupted.
With their rifles out of commission, the soldiers tried to maintain a line of defense by using their muscles. Five of them pounced on the enemy. Then another and another. Two grabbed him by the arms, two grabbed him by the legs, and while two others held him from behind. A seventh one arrived and tried to grab his head.
“Hurry up, Garcia!” one shouted. The android was a solid mass that was beginning to shake off them; they couldn’t hold it any longer.
“The freaking emergency switch, Garcia! Press it!”
Garcia tried to reach the neck of the android; It would be enough to press the switch to deactivate the controls and…
There was no switch in sight. Beneath the collar of the raincoat, there was only the chrome nape of the Cyclops.
“Garcia!” his comrades yelled at him.
“He doesn’t have one!” Garcia yelled.
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The A60 began to move so abruptly that the soldiers looked more like ticks struggling to latch onto a dog than strong, trained men. Part of his purple raincoat ripped from the struggle; sleeves and neck; the sound of fabric ripping was more chilling than any explosion. Until he ended up getting rid of the soldiers with his bare hands, throwing them against the walls and the ceiling as if they were sandbags. Some hit the lamps, causing short circuits and bursts that rained sparks on those already on the ground.
The flashing red lights were blinded once and for all. Corridor C was in the dark; motes of fire fluttered like scorched fireflies.
Against the intruder, everyone screamed or died, everything fell apart or burned. Nothing could beat him. The desperation, the screech of alarms, and the explosions: everything contrasted with the deadly serenity of his presence.
In a matter of minutes, the android had reached the inner levels of a barracks believed to be impenetrable.
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“Ninth Battalion is down,” Officer Liza Grant announced, checking in horror at the results displayed on her screen. “Possible loss of ten.”
“Annihilation of battalion ten is confirmed,” another officer pointed out. “We’ve lost contact with seven, eight, and eleven, sir.”
Commander Dubhe approached; his face contracted with fear and surprise. “What is this? I’ve never seen an android like this before!” he muttered, watching the situation on the room’s main screen. There was chaos there; soldiers running from one side to the other, along with the rest of the non-military personnel who sought refuge from the relentless intruder. He turned to Claudia Hosse. “Has the automatic defense system been repaired?”
“No, sir,” said the officer. “The electrical surge that switched off our radar and the outer antenna circuit continues to interfere with the defense system.”
That sentence summarized two terrible facts. The first was that, without the antennas operating, the barracks would continue to be exposed to other threats besides the present one. Dubhe imagined hordes of Rowdy Ones entering, waving their weapons as enraged villagers with torches, demanding blood. His thought was ridiculous, though, more at a time like this, and he knew it. They had an immediate emergency on their hands, and even though it was a single intruder and not a bunch of crazy anarchists, that single individual had already vanquished half of their battalions.
The second fact was that, without the defense system active, more than a third of the defense arsenal was disabled. In these conditions, the computerized cannons, the remote-control projectiles, the electromagnetic nets, and the steel sheets, which can isolate entire sectors from the rest of the facility and buy some time with, were as useful as any corpse scattered in the courtyard or in the corridor where the intruder had walked by.
“What’s wrong with those technicians? Why haven’t they taken care of the situation yet?” the commander asked, annoyed. He’d already given the order for the malfunction to be solved ten minutes ago!
Officers Hosse and Grant exchanged looks.
“We’ve lost communication with the repair center, sir.” It was Grant who communicated the bad news. “We are not receiving audio, nor video from the sector.”
Dubhe repressed a cry of despair and managed to stand upright; his arms folded behind his back.
“The enemy is in tunnel C!” another officer announced. “He’s at level 1 and moving forward, sir!”
A murmur of surprise burst into the control room, and then there was a moment of silence. The situation was not bad; it was terrible. The intruder was six floors above them, a few minutes more, and they would have him knocking on the door.
“We’ll make use of our best men,” Commander Dubhe said. “Get the Grenadier squad into action!”
Officer Liza Grant communicated the mandate through the speaker. Her coffee was half over and already cold.