Ah, then she still lives. The intensity of my relief surprises me… along with unexpected levels of concern that her chances remain slim.
How did this happen?
After hurried consultations, we conclude that an independent rogue fighting unit has attacked my favorite human. Hundreds of the brutal things abandoned their old loyalties, long ago, in order to join one or another of the crystalline clans. Moronic battle machines, hobbling about the Inner Edge with ancient war damage, their spasm of violence a few years ago only served to alert and antagonize the humans, putting them on guard.
We should have waged a campaign to eradicate the foul remnants, long ago.
Only matters aren’t so simple. Not every killer went rogue. Many are still owned and operated by bigger probes like Awaiter and Greeter, despite our treaty to disarm.
I kept some of my own, buried in reserve.
Are any of my loyal hunters near enough to aid Tor Povlov? If so, would I dare order it done? What strange temptation! To intervene. Reveal hidden powers, for a mayfly? Perhaps the lonely wait-with beings like Greeter my sole company-has driven me unstable.
I am saved from cognitive dissonance by a swift calculation. None of my remotes are close enough to help. Yet, might one assist some other way?
Meanwhile-in parallel-another thought occurs to me. Can I be certain Tor was ambushed by a loner? As I recall, the ancient war machines sometimes operated in pairs or triples.
Worse-might this have been planned by one of us major probes? By a fellow survivor? One who shared my lonely exile for almost seventy million Earth years? Without even trying hard, I can come up with a dozen possible motives that might tempt Sojourner, or Explorer, or Trader… though certainly not Awaiter.
I am warming up my repair and battle units. In truth, I began doing so (gradually and in secret) almost a human-century ago, when radio waves began pouring from the silent third planet. Preparation seemed prudent.
Now perhaps I had better-as an Earthling might say-crank it up.
76.
Our fate will turn on split seconds, she thought.
Unless the damn FACR has cracked our encryption and knows what we’re about to do. Or unless there’s more than one of the horrid things! In which case, we’re torqued.
Breathing tension in her steamy life support suit-capsule, she watched the first of several timers count down and reach zero-then start upward again. One. Two. Three. Four…
Warren is starting to move. In her mind’s eye, Tor pictured the vessel’s engines lighting up, blasting toward a fateful emergence from the asteroid’s protective bulk. The tip of its nose should appear in one hundred and six seconds.
Before working out this plan, she had raced through dozens of scenarios. All the viable ones started this way, with her ship firing-up to come around. After all, what if the FACR really was too afraid to fire at the Warren Kimbel? Why not find out, right at the start? Easiest solution. Let the ship come to fetch Tor and Gavin. Then go FACR-hunting.
For some reason, Tor felt certain things wouldn’t go that way. Life was seldom so easy.
The new count reached forty-six. So, in exactly one minute the FACR would spot Warren’s prow emerging from behind the roid’s protecting bulk…
When thirty seconds remained, Tor uttered a command:
“Drones M and P, go!”
They belonged to Gavin, a hundred meters beyond the crater’s rim. Soon, a pair of tiny glimmers rose above that horizon. Tor’s percept portrayed two loyal little robots firing jets, lancing skyward on a suicidal course-straight toward the jumble of rocks and pebbles where a killer machine lurked.
They’re harmless, but will the FACR know that?
Ten seconds after those two launched, she spoke again.
“Drones R and K, come now!”
With parameters already programmed, those two started from opposite directions, jetting toward her across a jumble of twisted girders. Now fate would turn on the foe’s decision.
Which group will you go after first? Those rushing toward you, or those coming to rescue me? Or none?
“Drones D and F, now!” Those were two more of Gavin’s, sent to follow the first pair, hurtling toward the sandbar-cloud where the enemy hid, leaving her partner almost alone. That couldn’t be helped. And Warren’s nose would be visible in five… four…
In purely empty space, lasers can be hard to detect. But Gavin had spent the last half hour using his remaining hand to toss fists of asteroidal dust into the blackness overhead, as hard as he could without exposing himself. (A side benefit: burrowing a deeper shelter.) The expanding particle cloud was still essentially hard vacuum-
– but when the kill beam lanced through that sparse haze, it scattered a trail of betraying blue-green twinkles… as it sliced drone P in half, igniting a gaudy fireball of spilled hydrazine fuel.
Tor blinked in shock, before remembering to start a fresh timer… as drone M was cloven also! Without exploding, this time. She fought down fear in order to concentrate.
So. It acted first to protect itself. Only now-
She turned to face drone R, speeding toward her above the jumble of ruined alien probe-ships. The little robot carried a flat, armorlike plate, salvaged from the junk pile, now held up as a shield between it and the FACR.
“Gavin did you get a fix on-”
A searing needle of blue-green struck the plate, spewing gouts of superheated metal. The drone kept coming, hurrying to Tor…
“Now I have!” her partner shouted. “Got the bastard localized down to a couple of meters. You know, I’ll bet it thinks I’m dead. Doesn’t know I’m a-”
The FACR’s beam wandered a quick spiral. Then, whether by expert-targeting or a lucky shot, it sliced off one of the little drone’s gripper-hands. The protective plate twisted one way, the drone another. Imbalanced, it desperately compensated, trying to reach Tor-till it crashed into a jutting piece of ancient construction crane. The plate spun off, caroming amid the girders, coming to rest just out of Tor’s reach.
The robot tumbled to a halt, shuddered, and died, with another hole drilled neatly through its brain case.
Damn. The sonovabitch is good! And its refire rate is faster than any weapon built by humans.
Aware that nineteen seconds had passed since the first laser bolt was fired, she spun to look at drone K, jetting toward her from the opposite side, clutching another slab of makeshift, ill-fitting armor. Again, harsh light and molten splatters spewed from wherever the FACR’s beam touched metal, hunting for a vulnerable spot. In moments-
The lance of bitter light vanished-with suddenness that left Tor blinking. As her optics struggled to adapt, the drone kept coming toward her, apparently undamaged.
Which must mean-
“I am now under attack, Captain Povlov. The good news is that your distractions bought me half a minute. The bad news, alas? The Faction-Allied Competition Remover does not appear to be afraid of me.”
The latest generation of ai had an irksome habit of turning verbose, even garrulous, at times of stress. No one knew why.
“I have pinged a radar pulse at the site Gavin provided. The return echo was strong down to half a centimeter. In response, the FACR burned off my main antenna and a surrounding patch of hull. Adjacent chambers are no longer air tight.