Page 166 of Dustwalker
Thirty meters.
Sparks crackled over Ronin’s cheek. He locked his arm to prevent himself from scratching.
“They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t admitted,” Reg reasoned.
“Yes. You’re right,” static bot replied.
Dozer resumed her walk. Her boots fell heavily on the concrete, which was run through with poorly repaired cracks.
Twenty-five meters. Fifteen. Seven.
“How far have you been dragging him?” static bot asked.
“Too damned far,” Dozer replied. Three meters. “You mind helping me before I blow a motor?”
The gearheads came into view from their abdomens down; their pants were patched but clean, their boots worn but sturdy. Their weapons, ancient-looking automatic rifles with cracked wooden stocks, swung through Ronin’s vision as the two stepped forward. Slinging the rifles aside, they took hold of Ronin’s arms and lifted him off Dozer. Static bot drew Ronin’s arm over his shoulders.
On the edge of Ronin’s optical field, Dozer lurched forward, grabbing the Reg by the throat.
Reverting his legs to normal function, Ronin wrapped his armaround static bot’s neck, clasped his wrist with his opposite hand, and squeezed.
A peal of static rose from the bot’s voice modulator as it was crushed. Its head drooped to the side, the internal support structure of its neck shattered. Ronin shifted his hold on it, tearing through the back of the bot’s shirt and the synthetic skin beneath. He jammed his fingers beneath the lip of the exposed panel and tore off the cover plate.
Static bot struggled, fully aware of what was happening—crippled, but functional. It slammed its flailing arms into Ronin, who raised his own arm to protect his head as he gripped the power cell and ripped it out of the compartment.
The bot stilled abruptly, remaining upright despite its arms and head sagging. Ronin turned to Dozer.
She stood over Reg’s prone form. His back casing had been ripped open as easily as Ronin had torn static bot’s shirt, the metal bent so severely that it was breaking along the crease. Cables and wires jutted from his neck. His head, with Warlord’s symbol in blood red on the exposed skull casing, lay three meters away.
Dozer met Ronin’s gaze and tossed the power cell onto the motionless bot at her feet. “Didn’t even get to?—”
Ronin’s attention shifted to the clinic’s entrance before she finished. A figure approached the doors from within, features obscured by the reflections of the outside lights upon the glass.
It was most likely Mercy coming to investigate the commotion. But some hidden process, developed and honed by Ronin’s years in the Dust, insisted it wasn’t her.
He dropped onto a knee, took hold of static bot’s rifle, and lifted it quickly enough for the strap to break off the front end. Grasping the handguard, he pulled back the charging handle to ensure a round was chambered and braced the stock against his shoulder as the doors slid open.
The only thing familiar about the bot who stepped out was the gear-topped skull painted on its chest casing.
Microseconds ticked by. Twisting toward Dozer, the gearhead fired his rifle from the hip. The first shot was thunderous in the relative silence.
Ronin squeezed the trigger as a second round burst from the gearhead’s rifle. Ronin’s shot punched through the bot’s cranial casing,snapping is head to the side. His actuators adjusted for the recoil, sending the next bullet through the gearhead’s left optical receptor.
With sparks spraying from its damaged casing, the gearhead spun to face Ronin.
Gunshots rang out from the east and west as Ronin fired three more rounds into the gearhead’s torso. He counted nine new holes in its casing before it staggered backward, shattering the front doors, and slumped onto the ground.
Dozer leapt forward and braced a boot on the fallen gearhead’s chest. Grabbing its gun arm, she wrenched back, tearing off the limb. She raised her foot and slammed it down, crushing the bot’s torso. The gearhead stilled with an electricpop.
The detached arm was still clutching the rifle when Dozer tossed it aside. “Shit.”
The other soldiers advanced from the corners of the building, their footfalls loud on the concrete.
Ronin stood up, keeping his rifle braced against his shoulder, and approached Dozer. As he passed the entryway, he saw the synth nurse, Mercy, standing just beyond the interior doors.
“How are you holding up, Dozer?” he asked.
“Bastard clipped a power conduit,” she replied. “Got a minor power leak. Could be worse.”
