"How can we stop it?"
"You can short out its system by poking a wire between its scales behind its head, into its brain unit. That will render it inert, and you can then dismember it. Lobster pincers are not effective for this; you will have to do it." She gave him a thick piece of wire. "I will find another way for the other defenders. There will be one or two machines, possibly a third, so stay on guard." She kissed him and vanished.
"She loves you," Click-toe remarked. "That is good."
She was like a mother. "Affirmation. It must be my turn to watch."
"I will watch longer, as you will need to poke the machine. That will be dangerous, and you will need all your strength."
He could not argue with that. He returned to sleep, holding the wire.
It was dusk when a commotion woke him again. There was a series of pops or bangs. Click-toe was on the floor, desperately clicking. "My eye! My eye!" He rushed to her. Her right eye stalk was gone, and green ichor was willing from the stump.
"What happened? How can I help you?"
"The machines! They're here! They shot my eye!"
He grabbed the wire Flame had given him and dived for the higher exit. He scrambled out.
There was a lobster coming toward the house. He knew it was a machine.
He lurched to his feet, and ran toward the machine. It spied him. The forepart turned to orient on him. A bullet plowed into the ground just behind him. The machine had expected him to flee, not come toward it. It was having trouble orienting on him, in part because it was geared to fire parallel to the ground, while he was mostly well above ground. But it would not miss many times.
Indeed, the next shot creased his chest. Something fragmented, but he didn't seem to be badly wounded.
He leaped onto the machine, grabbing it behind the pincers. It heaved, trying to throw him off, but he clung to it. Its pincers couldn't get at him from this position.
He lifted the wire and put it to the carapace. There was a seam there, behind the head, as there had to be so the head could swivel. He poked the wire in.
The machine turned in a circle, trying to reach him, but he clung, still jamming in the wire. Did he have the right angle?
Then the wire connected. The machine made a hissing sound and collapsed as acrid smoke emerged. He had gotten it!
He pulled out the wire, got up and ran back to the house. He had known that he couldn't try to help Click-toe as long a an active machine was out there; they would both be dead in seconds. But now he had to see to her.
He crawled in. "I got it!" he exclaimed. "I stopped the machine!"
She clicked in response, but there was no translation. He looked at the translator. It was in tatters.
That was what the machine's bullet had struck. It might have saved him from injury or even death. But he could no longer talk to Click-toe.
He removed it. "I'm sorry. My translator—" He set it aside. "We can't talk."
She clicked, understanding. She had put something on her eye stalk so that it no longer bled. But she still had to be in pain.
"I got the machine," he said. "I used the wire." He held it up, then pantomimed jamming it into the machine. "It's dead. As it were."
She clicked. Did she understand?
"Your eye. I'm sorry. I guess it saw you looking and fired a barrage, and got that before you could get down."
He put his hand over his own eye. "I'm sorry."
She walked by him, and out the doorway. He followed. She went to the defunct machine. She caught its tail in her pincers and tried to drag it.
"Oh—to hide it," he said. "So the next one won't know what happened and be warned. Smart girl! I'll help."
He took hold of a pincer and hauled. Together they dragged the heavy body into the brush, and covered it over, then scuffed the place where it had been so there was no sign. Then they went back inside the house.
"How badly are you hurting?" he asked Click-toe. "I mean, the eye?" He put his finger near, without touching.
She winced. She was like a lobster, but this reaction was familiar.
"You're hurting. Physically and emotionally. I don't know how to help you. I can't even ask you how."
Then it occurred to him that if she winced in the manner a human person would have, she might have other similar reactions. Maybe he could help after all.
"I want to give you comfort," he said. "Just reassurance that someone else cares. May I do that?"
She just gazed at him with her single eye stalk, not understanding.
"Comfort," he repeated. "I trust you. I want you to trust me." He put his hand in her large right pincer. She could cut it off or severely mangle it, if she chose. "Trust."
She clicked with her free pincer, and did not close on his hand. She had to understand.
"Now I want to hold you," he said. He sat beside her, then drew her toward him. He put his arms around her. "I know I'm not a Lobster, but I am a living, feeling person, as are you. We are in this together."
She stiffened, then relaxed, perhaps understanding. Then she rested her head against his shoulder. She was accepting his comfort.
They remained that way for a time. Then she moved, and he let her go. He had made his gesture, and she had accepted it; that was what counted.
He got up and went to the skylight. She clicked urgently, concerned.
"But I have to look. There might be another machine coming."
Still she clicked, and drew on his hand with a pincer, not pinching at all.
He sighed. "Okay. Don't make a target of myself. I'll go out and watch."
She went out with him. They went to the brush beside the house and hid themselves, and watched. After a time she touched his arm, and when he looked, she laid her head on the ground and retracted her eye stalk. She would sleep while he watched; it was her turn. "Okay," he repeated.
Time passed. It got dark, but he could still see some, and hear. He remained alert.
Then he heard something. It was a rustling, as of something coming down the path. He tapped Click-toe on the shell of her large pincers. She woke. Her eye stalk rotated to orient on him.
He touched his ear to show it was something he heard, and pointed to the path. She nodded.
He held up his stiff wire. He pantomimed jamming it into something. She nodded again.
He saw it. A lobster scuttling toward the house. Was it a machine? He wasn't sure. The prior one had been crafted to resemble a lobster.
Then there was a bang and a flash of light as the lobster fired toward the house. That settled it. Real lobsters did not have built-in guns.
Fifth waited until the machine was parallel to their spot. Then he jumped up and charged it from the side, hoping he could reach it before it oriented on him.
The machine turned and fired, missing. He ran on toward it. It was five paces away, four, three, two.
It fired again. The bullet caught his leg. There was a flash of pain and he went down just clear of the machine. He tried to scramble toward it, but it was reacting faster. He saw the muzzle of the gun set in its big pincer, pointing at his head.
Then something landed on that pincer, crushing it to the ground. It was another lobster. It was Click-toe! She was holding the machine down so it couldn't fire at him.
He dragged himself to them, holding the wire. But he couldn't get into the correct position; it was too painful to heave himself up. Meanwhile the machine was heaving, trying to free its pincers, trying to throw Click-toe off. She was moving to stay on top, while she could.
He had to act immediately. But still the angle was wrong. He needed to get up high enough to poke from directly behind the head. His arm was flailing uselessly.
Click-toe put her pincers on his extended arm, closing just enough to hold him without hurting him, and hauled, bringing him up. Now he was in position. He jammed the wire in—and was rewarded by the pop and smoke as it connected. The machine had been shorted out.