Chapter 28 #2
Further examination of the tape player led him to the battery compartment, which was empty.
That was good. Leaked battery acid had damaged many electronic devices he’d discovered over the years.
If he could figure out an alternate means of powering this tape player, Lara could listen to music.
Maybe it would inspire her to move in new ways.
He knew he needed to save space for tradeable scrap, but he couldn’t leave these behind. Not when they were so likely to bring Lara joy.
Strange how quickly I’ve come to value her happiness…
After dumping out the hangers, he transferred the tapes into his bag as neatly as possible, setting the player and the dusty earpieces that seemed to go with it atop them. He spread a rag over the items before repacking the hangers.
Ronin stood and swung his pack over his shoulders, running his optics over the room one more time. They fell on the stack of drawings.
Tabitha would live on in Lara’s memory, but there was no evidence of her existence apart from a simple grave just west of Cheyenne. She’d left nothing behind but her love for her adopted sister. Was that enough?
Crouching, he returned the papers to bin. Though the broken lid wouldn’t seal, he put its pieces back in place, rose, and slid the bin onto the closet shelf. Perhaps the drawings would last a few more years there than they would have on the floor.
And perhaps Lindsey, whoever she’d been, would exist for a little longer through them.
Activating night vision, he resumed his search of the premises.
There was little else worth taking in the rest of the house, apart from a few metal and plastic scraps and a pot that would clean up nicely. The last door to check behind was on the interior kitchen wall. The writing on its face was peeling off with the paint, but it was still legible.
NOTHING FOR YOU HERE
GO AWAY WE WILL FIGHT
Those words must’ve been spray-painted decades ago, and the state of this place suggested that it had been deserted for many years before Ronin’s arrival. Unless there was an active bot lurking behind this door, there was no one left to fight.
Ronin drew his handgun, grasped the knob, and pulled the door open.
A narrow staircase led down into a dark basement. On one side, the concrete foundation met the wall, creating a ledge that was cluttered with objects made unidentifiable by the excessive cobwebs and dust gathered upon them.
He lowered his foot onto the first step, and eased his weight onto it, listening to the wood creak.
When it didn’t break, he repeated the process with the next step.
He’d fallen through floors and stairs before, and had never suffered more than minor damage, but it was best to be careful.
Especially with someone awaiting his return.
Were these the places Lara wanted to see? The ruins of buildings once inhabited by people long since forgotten, containing fragments of stories that had been lost to time?
These places are her people’s history.
Bots endured while generations of humans were born, lived, and died. Were the long, dull, logic-driven existences of bots fuller than the quick, emotion-saturated lives of humans? Ronin wasn’t sure which people were the favored of the Creators anymore.
His boots came down on solid concrete at the base of the stairs.
Bare joists and beams from the floor above ran overhead, the gaps between them filled with rotted, disintegrating insulation and thick spiderwebs.
Dingy blankets and sheets, hanging from the wood by nails and staples, divided the space.
A stack of dilapidated boxes rested beneath the only visible window, which was completely covered by dirt from the outside.
Holding the handgun at the ready, Ronin reached forward with his empty hand, brushing aside one of the sheets. Dust rained from the fabric and grit crunched beneath his boots as he walked past.
His foot hit something. The hollow, metallic clangs of the object bouncing on the floor were thunderous, followed by the more muted sound of it rolling over the concrete. He shifted his optics to follow the path in the dirt, gun leveled, ready to open fire.
The tin can he’d kicked rocked slowly in place. There was more trash scattered around the floor nearby, mostly empty cans and wrappers.
Frowning, he advanced through the maze of dangling fabric to the far wall. There were more boxes and plastic bins there, none in any better shape than what he’d seen upstairs. He turned to the left, pushed through more sheets, and finally emerged in an open area.
A workbench with a vise bolted near its center spanned the rear wall.
More cans were scattered over its surface, along with small boxes, jars, and bottles.
Articles of clothing, as dirty and worn as the bedding suspended from the rafters, hung along the edge of the bench as though placed there to dry.
One item caught his attention, recognizable despite the cobwebs enveloping it because of the lever on the side. It was a press from a reloading kit.
He shifted his optics to the floor, where a collection of blankets and pillows formed a pallet upon which three skeletons lay in ragged clothing. The two smaller ones were huddled in the arms of the third. Each skull had a small hole in its forehead.
Several feet away, a fourth skeleton, taller than the rest, lay facedown on the concrete. The back of its skull was shattered—an exit wound.
Ronin crouched beside the lone skeleton.
Its fingers were wrapped around a rusted revolver, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath its torso.
In its other hand, it held a paper wrapped in a plastic sheath.
Ronin slid the paper out of the clawlike grip.
The writing on it was a sloppy scrawl, not unlike the latter entries in the journal Lara had found.
It was mercy. There was no other choice, and it was a mercy to do it. You’re not going to have us again, even after we’re dead. Not going to have us or ours! You made me kill them. Made me
It was a mercy A MERCY
Lord, have mercy on me.
Folding the paper, Ronin stared at the remains. He’d spent many years longing for the return of his memories from the before time, had thought himself incomplete without them. But were these the sorts of memories stored in the corrupted part of his mind? Was the data full of scenes like this?
He lifted the skeletal hand and replaced the note. His optics flicked to the pallet. Which of the smaller skeletons had been Lindsey?
Having lost his desire to search the basement further, he rose and walked to the workbench. The reloading press would trade for a good amount, and it would have to be enough.
I need to get back to Lara.
He stowed his pistol and set to work.
The bolts fastening the press to the benchtop were rusted. They groaned in protest when he clamped his pliers onto them and exerted pressure, but they gave way. He added the press to his bag and swept in some of the nearby cans along with it.
Lara would be pleased. He’d asked for a few days, but if he started back now, he’d be back in Cheyenne within twelve hours of leaving.
He walked through the blankets, moving them aside with an outstretched arm. Dust filled the air, obscuring his vision.
Something thin and wirelike caught his ankle.
He heard a short, metallic scrape, followed by the sound of a small piece of metal falling to the concrete.
The fraction of a second Ronin had to anticipate what was coming proved too little. His processors fired off a volley of commands.
Leap away.
Turn around.
Shield optics and torso.
Drop to the floor.
The blast hit him before any of those actions could be performed.
His optics flickered to static, and his audio receptors measured one hundred and eighty decibels before cutting out.
His dermal sensors registered the concussive wave, a rush of hot air, and shrapnel tearing his skin to ribbons.
Pain blazed through him. The sheets and blankets around him caught fire, falling atop him as he stumbled backward.
His right leg locked, nearly toppling him over.
He registered the intense heat both as a measurement of temperature and as searing agony melting the electrodes in and beneath his skin.
The haul.
Ronin and Lara wouldn’t be equipped to leave Cheyenne if he didn’t bring back more salvage.
Lifting both hands, he fumbled through burning fabric and melting synthetic flesh to tear the straps of his rucksack and thrust it away.
His optics were chaotic, and he didn’t know if it was because of the fire or if they’d suffered serious damage.
Grabbing whatever fabric he could, he wrenched off the burning blanket that had enwrapped him along with his coat, thrusting them away.
He slid his foot back to put distance between himself and the flames.
His heel caught on something—probably his discarded pack. It was enough to disrupt his precarious balance. Ronin fell backwards. He was aware of more fabric enveloping him and the heavy thunk of his head hitting the concrete before most of his systems went into standby.
You’re not going to have us, even after we’re dead.
The father had set a trap.
An automatic diagnostics scan began, assessing the damage.
External temperature normalizing. Casing penetrated in thirteen locations. Severe damage to synthetic epidermis, fifty-two percent loss. Power cells stable, eighty-six point six-five percent charge remaining.
One by one, his systems rebooted.
Motor functions impaired by damage to right knee joint. Audio receptors functioning normally. Left optical input offline.
The joisted ceiling flickered into view through a smoky haze.
Static crackled across Ronin’s optic feed, and white bars briefly scrolled through the image.
He brought a hand up. The charred cuff of his coat was still around his wrist, but most of the skin was gone.
A triangular piece of shrapnel jutted from his forearm. He pinched it and worked it loose.
His system of dermal sensors was the last to come online.
It began with a single, small surge. Within an instant, waves of sizzling electricity assailed him with unrelenting agony, locking his limbs.
The damaged sensor network was causing an overload.
He disabled the interface, cutting off all dermal sensation.
Flakes of ash slowly fluttered toward the floor, some still glowing ember orange as they lit upon Ronin.
He lifted his torso. The wad of bedding and his coat were still burning nearby, and flames were spreading across some of the hanging sheets and blankets.
Before long, the whole building was likely to be consumed by fire.
He’d always acknowledged the strong possibility that his end would come like this—alone in a forgotten place, a ruin, with Ronin himself left as another broken artifact of a bygone era.
The traders in the last town he’d been through would wonder where he’d gone, but that would be the last time anyone thought about him.
Dustwalkers came and went. Usually, they never came back again.
But there was someone who would think about him. There was someone waiting for him, worrying about him, someone depending upon him.
Lara.
He’d given his word. He would return to her. Not because he was fond of Cheyenne, not because his residence was important to him. Not because he needed the trade.
Ronin needed Lara.
He shrugged off the sheets that had wrapped around him and smothered the remaining flames on his body, rolled onto his side, and attempted to regain his feet.
His right knee refused to bend, its motion inhibited by embedded shrapnel.
He reached for the pliers on his belt, but they were gone, and a quick scan of his surroundings did not locate them.
Bending down, Ronin attempted to grasp the shrapnel jutting from his knee with his skinless fingers. Despite their strength, his grip kept slipping, and the metal was buried much too deep for him to even loosen it like this.
Smoke was gathering overhead, obscuring the joists, and flames were spreading through the dusty, ancient basement. He was running out of time to escape this place.
Reaching back, he wrapped the broken straps of his pack around his hand and dragged it closer. He transferred the surviving tools from his belt into his bag, dropped onto his belly, and crawled toward the stairs.