His hand had just settled on the jar when the lights died, plunging the galley into inky darkness. Before Grady could activate the flashlight embedded in his forearm patch, he heard a heavy thud from the corridor. Someone, or something, was out there.
22
Instinct screaming at him, warning him of danger, Grady ducked low and whipped his laser pistol from its thigh holster. The lights in the corridor had failed too, replaced within seconds by the dim glow of battle lighting, bathing the area in a wan, ruddy radiance.
He heard a muted clunk from the nearby mess hall. Two open doorways, one at either end of the galley where Grady crouched, gave access to the spacious dining area with its rows of long, empty tables and narrow, attached benches. Another, at the rear of the galley, led to the corridor. Whoever—whatever—lurked out there, he felt almost certain it wasn’t Mbeki doing his rounds. The sergeant would have alerted Grady to his presence instead of skulking around in the near darkness. Could it be a security bot, one they’d overlooked? Neither Phil nor Kotov mentioned bots, but perhaps they’d either forgotten in the rush to evacuate the former research station in the Badlands or hadn’t been aware of the machine’s existence to begin with.
Grady glanced toward the exit that opened out to the passage. The door lay shut—he hoped it was unlocked. Should he risk making a break for it? If an enemy had somehow slipped into the base—or been lurking here all along, perhaps a survivor from the raid—he needed to warn the others. But if more than one assailant waited for him, by opening the door, he might be walking right into a trap. Besides, his first concern was to identify the nature of the threat and then decide how to handle it.
If it turned out to be a harmless cleaning bot, he’d have alerted doc and the others for no reason. Better to first discover what he was dealing with. They weren’t being particularly careful about making noise. That either meant they belonged here, a friendly bot, or—and this notion sent chill fingers up his spine—they were so confident they wanted him to know they were stalking him. Psych him out, rattle him into making a mistake.
So much for enjoying a relaxing mug of coffee, Grady thought, his lips pursed as he sucked in a silent breath through his nose. He scuttled to one of the exits from the galley to the mess hall and, keeping low, risked a quick glance around the jamb.
Movement. Stealthy, unhurried. Someone, or something, heading his way. Grady stifled a momentary urge to call out. What if the power had simply failed—the outpost had lain abandoned for a couple months without regular maintenance and all sorts of systems might be in need of repair—and Sergeant Mbeki, conducting a security sweep, had arrived to render assistance?
If so, why not announce himself—call out—even if comms were down? Why the furtive behavior? He knew Mbeki opted to don his powered combat armor before leaving Adventurer, wary of a possible incursion by pirates or Earth Galactic forces, or just cautious by nature, ever the careful soldier. So why not activate the built-in flashlight, make it easier to see and be seen? But no such light shone to chase away the shadows crowding the corners of the dining area.
A low mechanical hum filled the air, and a pale green light lanced out, spilling around the galley doorway as Grady ducked back. His eyes went wide as realization dawned. Scan! The mess hall and neighboring galley were being scanned. Which meant…
He flung himself to the floor as a surge of crimson bolts drilled the wall and the food serving slots separating the kitchen and dining areas. Machine laser. Was he facing a security bot equipped with rapid-fire armaments? Even if that was the answer, and the construct chose this moment to activate for some unknown reason, why attack him? When they arrived, his team deployed the rebel access codes supplied by Kotov’s tech expert, Gordie.
Entry to the base had gone without a hitch, as had activating the equipment, including the passcode-protected computers in the control room. No security alert was triggered as far as he knew. The bot, if that’s what he faced, should classify him as an ally and not an intruder. Unless it was malfunctioning, gone rogue?
Pots, pans, and utensils of all sorts scythed through the galley in a cloud of fragmented metal, wood, and plaster. Cupboards were blasted open, their doors and contents shredded in the unrelenting barrage. Grady could do little more than tuck his chin into his chest and cover his head with his arms, scant protection against the flying debris and the clamor that assaulted his ears. Something heavy clattered against his shoulders and he grunted in pain.
As he made himself as small a target as possible, a bizarre idea flitted through his mind. What if the bot’s sudden appearance and aggressiveness were triggered by his raiding of the coffee stockpile? Had a caffeine obsessed previous occupant of the outpost programmed the machine to defend his or her precious beans at all costs? If he promised not to drink any more of the dwindling supply of coffee—and return what Zoe and Lian carried off to Adventurer—would the bot relent? Grady almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the notion.
Then, without pausing, the direction of the incoming fire shifted down, drawing closer to where he lay. Keeping low, he half slid, half crawled across the floor, elbowing aside a detritus of mangled kitchenware, and reached the pair of wide, tall steel stoves standing near the large serving hatch.
A faint mechanical whirr, and a stream of laser bolts hammered the dividing wall again, zeroing in on his position. His assailant must have detected him using thermal imaging. Grady cursed and rolled into a ball, protected by the thick, reinforced walls of the industrial sized ovens.
The onslaught ceased, and he held his breath as another beam of light pierced the roseate gloom of the galley. A footfall and a muffled mechanical whine. Was it coming to finish him off, perhaps unable properly to scan because of the stoves at his back?
If Grady could be certain the attacker was a security bot, he was tempted to shout, identify himself as a member of the Interstellar Coalition, and order it to stand down. But if it was faulty, or an enemy construct left behind when the Earth Galactic raiders withdrew, he’d be giving away his exact position and potentially signing his own death warrant. He remained silent, his heartbeat thudding in his chest, sweat sheening his brow.
Somehow he’d managed to keep hold of his pistol, but realized he was severely outgunned. He needed a distraction, a means to create an opportunity for a clear shot at his adversary. Perhaps he would get lucky and hit a vital component. With a swift glance around him, Grady spotted a handle sticking out from beneath the pile of rubble. He reached out and discovered what was left of a heavy iron skillet. The top portion had been shot away, leaving a half-moon shaped lower section defined by a jagged edge.
Another footfall, closer. He was trapped and out of time. After a hurried breath, Grady gathered himself and, using an underhand throw, tossed the pan toward the far corner of the room, where it clanked against the wall. A dark shape, humanoid, appeared at the galley entrance furthest from him, lifted a weapon—the thick barrel visible through the open doorway—and a burst of laser bolts battered the spot where the skillet settled.
Its movements were unhurried. Did that mean it wasn’t a bot, but someone wearing powered armor, amped up to allow them to carry a heavy machine laser? Grady couldn’t tell. With a curse, he shoved to his feet and snapped off three shots at the half-seen figure. Not waiting to determine if he had scored a hit, he threw himself up onto the countertop, rolled across a series of empty food receptacles, and crashed onto the floor on the other side of the serving hatch. Ignoring a bloom of agony from his shoulder, he darted forward in a crouch, still clutching his gun.
A pop, like that of an old-fashioned mortar being fired, and a section of the far wall erupted. Fragmentation grenade! As lethal shards pelted the tables beneath which he sheltered—the sound like iron-formed hailstones clunking on a tin roof—Grady inwardly swore at the efficiency of whoever designed the well-armed bot. He risked a swift peek above the tabletop. Where was his opponent? There—just inside the dining hall, still lurking near the galley entrance.
Grady dropped low and frowned. His brief glimpse revealed what appeared to be armor, and a bipedal shape with two arms. No surprise there, bots were often designed to mimic humans in appearance.
But what caught his attention was the sight of flesh, made pallid in the red emergency lighting. A face, covered for the most part by a strange helmet and what looked like night-vision goggles.
Not a bot after all, it seemed, but someone sporting body armor. But the shape was chunkier than normal, less coherent, as if someone had bolted pieces of heavy armor plating to themselves. And he shouldn’t have been able to see the person’s face at all, covered as it ought to be by a reinforced visor.
No more time for speculation. He had to escape before his adversary spotted him. Desperate—and stifling the urge to cough amid the swirling dust—Grady squinted across the room to where the main exit should be. There! He glimpsed the way out through the thinning cloud as the grime settled. Could he make the dash to safety before being seen and targeted? Unlikely.
He knew he wouldn’t win in a shooting match—he lacked the firepower to overwhelm the more well-armed aggressor. His plan to cause significant damage hadn’t worked, as he heard the crunch of booted feet, his would-be killer still on their feet and mobile, evidently unharmed. If his laser bolts had struck home, the heavy armor more than likely absorbed the impact.
His gaze flicked to the open doorway, calculating the distance, and he stifled a curse as his heart sank. A figure materialized just outside the entrance, weapon in hand, dimly visible in the haze. Grady peered through the legs of tables and chairs, spotting the telltale glint of red lighting on body armor. Had his attacker called in reinforcements?
Grady’s heart seemed to pound in his ears. The odds of his survival had just plummeted.
23
Trapped and now outnumbered, with his escape route cut off, Grady decided he had to risk revealing his position and comm for help, hoping that the interference—or was it an act of deliberate jamming?—had faded. He went to tap his ear-mic, but his hand came away empty. It was gone, probably knocked to the floor when he vaulted onto the countertop in the galley. With an enemy standing a few feet from where he had landed, there was no chance he could sneak back and search for the device without being seen.
He hunkered down and fingered his forearm patch. He’d have to chance the two-way conversation being overheard through the built-in speaker, or else send a text message, though he disliked typing on the tiny virtual keyboard.
Grady needn’t have worried. The curved screen gave a tortured sizzle in response to his touch—the surface sporting a jagged crack—and his frantic tapping yielded no response. Looks like I’m on my own, he thought. I’d have brought something with greater stopping power than a pistol if I’d known I was going to end up in a gun battle.
The first attacker seemed focused on finding Grady, either unaware, or unconcerned, about the arrival of their comrade, who still stood outside in the corridor, a dark, silent, menacing shape suffused by the ambient glow from the red emergency lighting. It occurred to the captain that the frag grenade’s explosion may have prevented the assailant from hearing its companion’s approach. Either way, it didn’t matter.
Grady’s mouth went dry as his pulse throbbed in his temples. Not for the first time, he was reminded how much he preferred combat in space—Adventurer’s cockpit, shields, and firepower providing a modicum of protection—to hand-to-hand fighting where he could see the whites of his adversary’s eyes. Grady knew he was fit enough, and proficient with a variety of weapons, but he lacked Zoe or Mbeki’s experience of in-person combat. His back was against the wall—metaphorically and almost literally—and he was fast running out of options if he hoped to survive.
The first assailant advanced a step, head turned toward the interior of the mess hall, and raised a bulky weapon to its hip. Machine laser, the awkward weapon typically mounted on a tripod and seldom hand carried into battle. The armor must be powered to the max and then some, as Grady had surmised, lending the attacker sufficient strength to heft the heavy armament. Even then, it was a surprising choice and lessened the wielder’s freedom of movement. Doesn’t seem to be slowing them down any, came the bitter thought. What the hell am I facing here?
With surprising agility, the second figure darted into the room and dropped to one knee, laser rifle pinned against its shoulder. And opened fire on the initial attacker. Grady almost whooped with joy and relief. It was Mbeki! The sergeant, still clad in full body armor, must have heard the clamor of combat and came to investigate.
Evidently taken by surprise, the enemy combatant staggered back with a grunt. So, it could be hurt, after all. But before Grady could take advantage of Mbeki’s onslaught, the aggressor turned, the barrel of the machine laser swiveling around. “Watch out, Sarge,” Grady yelled.
