Page 170 of Dustwalker
“Jensen, get your ass to a window and return fire!” Dozer shouted.
After a brief hesitation, Jensen obeyed, throwing his shoulder against the wall beside Ramirez’s narrow window. His rifle roared, overcoming Ramirez’s wails as Ronin carried the wounded soldier to the stairwell.
Ramirez quieted as they descended.
“Still with me, Ramirez?” Ronin asked, adjusting his suspension system to keep the wounded soldier as stable as possible.
“Sorry…”
“For what?”
They passed the doorway to the third floor.
“What I said about your girl,” Ramirez replied, his voice strained. “Wasn’t right.”
Ronin’s hip locked, causing his foot to come down hard on the second floor landing.
“Fuck.” Ramirez clenched his jaw.
“I promise that wasn’t retaliation,” Ronin said without humor.
They emerged on the ground floor. The soldiers in the reception room shouted to one another over their thundering rifles. All the noise was amplified as it echoed down the halls. Ronin carefully set Ramirez on the floor at the rear of the room, maxed his vocalizer, and called for McGowan.
The medic was an older model bot, tall and thin with a sleek, dull gray casing and elongated limbs. He broke away from his comrades and moved across the room with his body bent in an awkward crouch.
McGowan’s metal legs clacked on the floor as he sank down besideRamirez. “Samuel, I need you to remove your hand so I can assess your injury.”
Through clenched teeth, Ramirez grated, “Told you…not to fucking…call me that.”
“J-just move i-i-it.” McGowan’s large, reflective optics stared down with unspoken intensity. With gentle firmness, he pried Ramirez’s hand away. Fresh blood bubbled from the wound, visible through the tear in the man’s shirt. Head swiveling on a neck with too many joints, McGowan delicately prodded the entry wound, and then guided Ramirez to sit up so he could examine the exit wound.
If Ramirez’s agonized groan affected McGowan, the bot didn’t let it show. “Prognosis omitted.”
“The fuck that mean?” Ramirez demanded.
“High likelihood of perforations to internal organs and presence of contaminated foreign material. Emergency surgery unviable in current location and/or situation.”
“There are rooms set up to care for humans in this building, but I don’t know if they’re operational,” Ronin said.
McGowan’s optics contracted and dilated. His head trembled faintly for just under a second. “Unable to i-interface with facility networks. I r-require physical access to said equipment to assess functionality.”
Ronin nodded and stood up. Despite his damaged hip, he ran through the halls, following the familiar path to the repair room. Warnings about Ramirez’s critical condition flashed repeatedly in his interface, churning up more memories.
Memories of Lara battered, bloodied, and broken. The sounds of gunfire and shouting faded to nothing as he delved deeper into the building, only making those memories louder and heavier.
Mercy was in the repair room along with the machine attendant and two synths Ronin had never seen, a male and a female. They all turned toward the door as he entered.
“Is it over?” Mercy asked.
Ronin met her optics. “No, but we have at least one wounded human. Is there anything in this place that could help?”
“Despite their disuse, the operating rooms have been maintained. Three are equipped with automated operating tables,” the attendant replied.
Hope arced across Ronin’s circuits, small but bright. “I won’t askany of you to fight, but we need your assistance. All of us have parts to play if we want Warlord deposed.”
They stared at Ronin in silence, undoubtedly assessing whether the potential outcome was worth the immense risk involved.
Finally, Mercy stood up. “I believe there’s enough uncorrupted data in my memory to help. Take me to the patient.”
