Chapter 50 #4
No one came out of the Dust clean. No one.
More gunshots boomed outside.
Ronin laid the ancient rifle on the floor. “Help is downstairs.”
Ramirez shook his head again. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t slow his breathing.
Ronin’s processors raced, running through a myriad of possibilities, most of which had a high likelihood of ending in the young soldier’s death. But Ronin’s memory kept returning to the dark rooms downstairs—rooms that were equipped for human care. If any of that equipment was still functional…
Ronin slipped one arm beneath Ramirez’s legs and the other around his back. Something ground and stuttered in his hip. The soldier cried out as Ronin stood, clamping both hands down on his wound.
Jensen muttered curses, pacing restlessly.
“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 beside Ramirez. “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 ask any 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.”
All four bots followed Ronin. The gunfire’s volume increased drastically as they neared the reception area. Ramirez clung to McGowan, who had his hands clasped over the entry and exit wounds. Blood was smeared on the bot’s casing.
“We have more wounded incoming,” McGowan said when Ronin arrived.
Ronin indicated the bots who’d followed him. “They’re going to help. Coordinate with them.”
Leaving the medics to their work, Ronin moved forward, dipping into a crouch to remain behind cover. The barricade was riddled with bullet holes. He knelt beside Maul as another volley of gunfire hammered the barrier. Bits of plastic, wood, and metal fell over the soldiers.
“We’ve knocked out at least six of them,” Maul said, voice modulator turned up to overcome the cacophony, “but we count at least twenty more still in the fight.”
“Many of them are damaged. We just need to hold out. Do we have anyone monitoring our flanks?” Ronin swung the rifle from over his shoulder and took it into his hands.
“What should I have them watch? There are a hundred damned windows for hostiles to breach. They could get in from anywhere.”
The gearheads’ gunfire shifted focus to the upper floors. Ronin, Maul, and the others rose, peering over the barricade. Ronin’s optics identified numerous targets; he took several shots in quick succession. The soldiers around him also fired.
A gearhead stumbled out from behind a tree, one arm dangling limply at its side, its clothing and casing full of holes. Within half a second, a dozen more rounds perforated the bot, stilling it completely.
Movement farther back caught Ronin’s attention.
He refocused, and for an instant, all his processes ceased.
Even before the videos at the base, he’d been all too familiar with the unassuming, unremarkable face staring back at him.
Though the skin over Warlord’s jaw had been replaced, there was still a scar on his cheek.
It was longer and at a sharper angle, and the sutures were spread further apart, but it wasn’t the scar that made Warlord.
It was the rage in his optics.
Ronin pivoted to aim, his damaged hip grinding. Warlord didn’t move as the dustwalker squeezed the trigger.
A massive bot stepped in front of Warlord. The bullet hit its broad, armored chest and ricocheted into the ground, leaving only a faint scratch on its olive-drab casing.
“The fuck is that?” someone asked.
“Compactor,” Ronin replied.
Comp loped forward, tearing up chunks of dirt and grass in its wake. More rounds bounced off its armored casing. The shots didn’t slow its momentum at all. Gearheads lined up behind it, using it as mobile cover for their advance.
“Time to break out the big guns, Sarge,” Ronin said.