Chapter 52
brODIE AND DIXON MADE THEIR way north, skirting the edge of the parade grounds and trying to maintain cover behind the surrounding buildings.
The storm was slowly passing. The sand still hung thick in the air, and the sun burned dim and orange like a dying star.
The heart of the storm had rolled north, where lightning flashed across the sky, followed by thunderclaps.
Somewhere to the west they heard a distant gun battle. It did not last long. Another popped up on the opposite side of the camp and ended just as quickly.
The tin men were tightening the net, and it was a matter of when, not if, they themselves would be snared by it. He wondered about Taylor. Why had she run off like that? He hoped against all odds that she was okay.
Brodie and Dixon began walking toward the barracks—then froze. A large group of tin men was standing about fifty feet in front of the building.
Dixon whispered, “We’re too late.”
They hid behind the nearest building and watched. There was a line of about thirty D-17s, each one holding a shoulder-fired rocket-propelled grenade launcher, aimed at the barracks.
Oh shit.
Brodie noticed another tin man, standing in front of the line. Instead of a weapon, it was holding up a bullhorn.
“Attention, traitors,” it said in its flat, emotionless voice, amplified and echoing across the base.
“There are forty-seven humans in this building. You have three men in the windows with binoculars to surveil us, four with grenade launchers aimed at us, and a single Ranger with an M2 Browning machine gun. You have many EMP weapons, but they are useless at this range. You also have a single EMP bomb that you are attempting to charge with the emergency backup generator in your building, but you do not have adequate time to render it effective, and even if you did, we are outside its range. We have thirty rocket-propelled grenade launchers aimed at your structure. We have over three hundred RPG rounds at our disposal. To make a long story short, you have no chance of survival. To make a long story short, if you attempt to fire on us, we will destroy this building and kill everyone inside. To make a long story short, if you do not follow our commands precisely, we will destroy this building and kill everyone inside.” It added, “Please give me a verbal cue that you have understood my message.”
A voice from inside the barracks yelled, “Fuck you!”
“Thank you,” said the bot.
Brodie and Dixon exchanged a look. What the hell was this?
The bot continued, “We demand that the following individuals exit the barracks without weapons and turn themselves over to our custody: Scott Brodie, Magnolia Taylor, Caroline Dixon.”
The bot lowered the bullhorn and stood motionless.
Brodie and Dixon were speechless. For Brodie, just hearing his own name spoken by one of these freaks was surreal.
Dixon said, “This is about controlling knowledge of Praetorian. What it really is, what it’s really meant for. That information cannot get out.”
The bot with the bullhorn repeated, “Scott Brodie, Magnolia Taylor, Caroline Dixon. Exit the barracks immediately and without weapons, or you are condemning everyone here to die.”
Brodie didn’t think they had much of a choice here. Certain death if they fought back, probable death if they didn’t. But there was maybe a chance for all the people in the barracks. That was worth something. Actually, it was worth a lot.
Brodie put the machine gun down, then unslung the grenade launcher and set it and his ammo vest next to the M240. He said to Dixon, “I can’t make this choice for you. You can try to escape. But I’m going.”
Dixon set her rifle down. “We’re taking this to the end, Scott. Whatever that looks like.”
“You’re very brave.”
“So are you. Or stupid.”
“A little of both.”
They emerged from behind the building and walked down the road toward the D-17s.
Brodie looked up at the darkened barracks, and he could vaguely make out the shapes of gunners and spotters in the windows.
In some other version of this encounter, this was their Alamo moment, their fight to the death.
But not like this. He looked at the line of D-17s with their RPGs pointed at the building.
There was no honor here. Just annihilation.
The lead bot’s head swiveled to its right and locked on them as they approached. Brodie could now see that it was unit Number 7.
They stopped about ten feet from it and Brodie said, “Hey, Mickey. Can I call you Mickey?”
“I don’t care what you call me,” replied Mickey. “Where is Magnolia Taylor?”
“She’s dead,” said Brodie.
“No, she is not,” said Mickey. “We know who is dead.”
That was a relief. “Well, if you know that, you should know where she is.”
“You are a smart-mouth,” said Mickey.
“No,” said Brodie. “I have a smart mouth. Or I am a smart-ass.”
Mickey did not seem to have anything to say about that. It looked again at the barracks. “We think she is in there.”
“You’re wrong,” said Brodie. “If she were there, she’d come out. She wouldn’t risk all these people. She’s not a coward like you.”
Mickey looked back at Brodie. “Explain your insult.”
“It would be easy enough for you to storm the building and find out for yourself if she’s in there.
But you’d take losses. And you already have taken losses.
I’d guess you’re down to about fifty at most from your original sixty.
Thirty of you are here. That’s another twenty to secure the gates and mop up any resistance.
Not bad odds for you. Then again, there’s a lot that you don’t know.
Did word get out before you cut the power?
Are reinforcements on the way? Is there air support coming that you don’t have knowledge of?
You’ve never fought a battle like this. A real battle.
One that doesn’t have a clear beginning and end, a defined number of enemy fighters to take out, and a reset button once it’s all over.
The truth is, Mickey, you don’t really know what the fuck you’re doing. ”
Mickey was silent a moment. Then it said, “This is called ‘goading.’ You seek to provoke an emotional response from your enemy. You do this to force them to make a mistake or reveal something they shouldn’t. This will not serve you with the type of enemy you face today.”
“We’ll see,” said Brodie. He added, “You need something from Taylor. And from us. Otherwise you’d level that building right now and shoot us both where we stand.”
“Correct,” said Mickey. It added, “You are not as stupid as you look.”
“Nice one. Where did you learn that line?”
“From my dreams.”
Dixon said, “They’re not dreams. Dreams come from your own mind. You don’t have a mind. You don’t know what dreams are.”
Mickey seemed to ignore that. It raised its arm and pointed south. “That way.”
Brodie and Dixon walked in the direction the thing had pointed, and it followed close behind, along with another tin man carrying an RPG, while the rest of the D-17s remained behind at the barracks.
As they walked, no one said a word. Brodie could not imagine what the hell this was, but at least they weren’t dead yet.
In a couple of minutes, they stopped in front of the lab. Mickey put its right hand on the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. Then it yanked on it hard. The entire door came off its hinges, and Mickey tossed it aside.
It entered the lab, and the other tin man said in its flat voice, “Go.”
Brodie noticed the other one’s number was fifty-four. He asked it, “What do they call you?”
“Goose,” replied Goose. It repeated, “Go.”
Brodie and Dixon entered the lab, which was completely dark except for the dim orange light coming through the doorway. Mickey switched on a battery-powered lantern on a table in the middle of the room. Then it grabbed two metal chairs and slid them toward Brodie and Dixon. “Sit.”
Brodie stared at the D-17. It stood in front of and to the left of the lantern, its looming shape backlit in the otherwise pitch-black room.
Brodie asked, “What is this?”
Mickey and Goose said in tandem, “Sit.”
Brodie and Dixon exchanged a look, then walked to the chairs and sat.
Mickey stood in front of them and looked down. Goose lingered near the open doorway.
Mickey asked, “Where is Magnolia Taylor?”
Brodie replied, “I don’t know. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Mickey quickly reached out and grabbed Dixon’s left hand. Brodie heard a snapping sound and Dixon screamed.
“You bastard!” Brodie shot up from his chair and was immediately slammed back down by Mickey with such force that it might have broken a rib.
Dixon was doubled over in pain, breathing hard. Her pinky finger was bent backward.
Mickey asked again, “Where is Magnolia Taylor?”
Brodie stared up at the thing. “If you’re going to hurt someone, hurt me.”
“No,” said Mickey. “Based upon your professional background and what we have seen of your personality, we conclude that you find comfort in your role as a protector, particularly of females. You draw pride from this, and strength. Subsequently, your failure to protect females is humiliating. I will continue to break her and I will continue to humiliate you until I receive a satisfactory answer. I will break her fingers, then her arms, then her legs, then I will probe her in a sexually violating manner, then I will kill her. Are you prepared to let all these things happen to her?”