The Orphaned Worlds (77 page)

Do it
.

Almost as if his thoughts were a signal, the four combat mechs, all moving in quadruped mode, shifted formation to herd him towards the edge. In the background, the
Har
swayed away from the tower and began to gain height.

‘Alexei, why didn’t you see them coming?’ he said into the two-way.

‘They didn’t arrive from the north-east,’ said Alexei, voice raised against the sound of the dirigible’s engines. ‘They must have stealthed their way in, or they were here already.’

‘Vashutkin up there with ye?’

‘What do you think?’

He was about to come back with a good bit of banter when, suddenly, the mechs went from amble to breakneck charge in roughly a second.

FACE THEM
BRACE YOUR STANCE
ARMS RAISED AND SPREAD

The Zyradin’s aura brightened. The glowing motes emerged from his skin, swarming, looking exactly like strange, wandering eyes. The tide of metal closed on him, and even though the fear was choking him he knew what the Zyradin was capable of and a demented, exhilarated part of him was actually enjoying it.

The mechs had learned from the demise of the others so no ranged weapons were being deployed. Then the full-tilt charge reached its launch point and in unison they leaped, trajectory arcs finely calculated to converge on the place where he stood. Greg could feel his body temperature rising, heartbeat speeding up, a rushing in his ears accompanied by a deep bass drone that seemed to resonate down to the cellular level …

As before, time slowed. To his eyes the machines blurred at the edges, and the strange blue light smeared faintly. The four mechs were past the high points of their leaps, glinting metal claws outstretched, spined lower limbs also coming up, They were close, less than a couple of metres away and still in motion, slow, imperceptible. Sharp, icy light bloomed from his outflung arms, a web of glittering radiance, like a froth of star-glints, that extended to caress the inward-flying killing edges and spikes.

For Greg it was like having the strength physically wrenched from his body. His senses swam, his extremities tingled and trembled, and bitter cold started climbing his spine. At the same time his mind was flooded with images of mechanisms, interlocking, turning, sliding elements, bearings, power systems, subassemblies, sensor webs, data networks, self-repair nodes, processor hubs, weapon batteries, ammo magazines … he saw their construction, saw the improvements and upgrades to earlier designs (some he recognised from those early mech attacks on Tusk Mountain) … He saw the production chamber where they were put together, saw something after, a long alien shape, a flattened carapace, segmented metallic tentacles …

Like an avalanche’s first moments, the first stone dislodging a few more, the disassembly began at the heart of the Zyradin’s zone of slow time. Greg could see pins, linkages and bolts undo themselves from the claws that were aimed at him, saw this unlimbering move back along the armoured limbs, past the shoulder joints and into the chests, into compressed assemblies of processors and power generators.

One part of Greg’s mind saw the immaculate disassembly, revelling in the attention to detail, and in the sheer torrent of detail …

While the rest of him gasped as the four merciless, inexorable machines sprang apart in midair, a spreading cloud of components still flying forward, cascades of metal pouring straight at him. Only to rebound from a hazy blue barrier which leaped up at the last moment. A deafening roar of clashing and crashing filled the air as the disconnected debris formed a rough U-shape surrounding him. Then everything turned grey and tilted over. Lying on his side he could feel exhausted muscles twitch in his face, neck, back, almost everywhere. The air wheezed in his chest with every breath, and there was just no strength in his arms and legs. He pressed one shaking hand against the hard ground but there was nothing to push with.

Footsteps approached, the only sound in the silence. A familiar figure crouched down next to him.

‘Impressive,’ said Vashutkin. ‘Micro-distortion of subspace combined with causal state inversion, with various effects. The Forerunners certainly were master craftsmen.’

A cold dread crept over Greg. It was Vashutkin’s voice but without so much as a hint of Russian accent. Feeling a trickle of returning strength he levered himself up onto one elbow.

‘Who are you?’ he said hoarsely.

AN AUTOMATION