NO, PLEASE DON’T GET UP.” The bot’s optics were fixed on Lemon as it hauled a bulky rifle from behind the counter and aimed it at Hunter. “I’M NOT CERTAIN HOW YOU DID IT, BUT I’M RATHER MIFFED YOU BROKE MY DOOR, AND SHOOTING YOUR INHUMAN FRIEND HERE MIGHT TAKE THE EDGE OFF. SO, IF EVERYONE COULD JUST HOLD STILL, I’LL CALL THE CONSTABULARY AND THEY’LL TAKE CARE OF YOU BOTH, YES?”
Solomon reached for an old battered CB radio with his free hand.
“You’re calling the Brotherhood on us?” Lemon asked.
“I’M SORRY, DIDN’T I MAKE THAT CLEAR?”
“But they’ll kill me, won’t they? Isn’t that a breach of the First Law?”
“WELL, HERE’S THE THING, MY STICKY-FINGERED FRIEND. I’VE MADE IT MY BUSINESS TO REMAIN UNAWARE OF THE PUNISHMENTS INFLICTED FOR THEFT IN NEW BETHLEHEM FOR THAT VERY REASON. IT COULD BE THAT THEY GIVE YOU A PAT ON THE BACKSIDE AND SEND YOU ON YOUR MERRY WAY.” Solomon tilted his head. “THOUGH I DOUBT IT.”
“Isn’t that a little against the spirit of the Law?” Lemon asked.
“NO, I’M GOOD WITH—”
The logika bucked, his whole body going rigid. He made a funny little noise in his voxbox, his optics glowing white before popping inside his metal skull. Sparks burst from the LED display at his chest, the radio in his hand, from his maddening grin. And with a small electronic whimper, Solomon crashed face-first into the antique register, then collapsed to the floor in a smoking heap.
Lemon lowered her hand and rolled to her feet, pulled herself over the counter. By the fizzing light of Solomon’s remains, she popped the top off a bottle of radmeds and scoffed three pills, swallowing her salvation with a grimace. Pulse racing, she stuffed her cargo pockets with the rest of the meds and anything else worth stealing. Finally, she knelt beside the fried logika, glanced one last time at the sign above the counter.
YOUR SATISFACTION GUARANTEED
“You know, you’re right,” she said. “That was completely satisfying.”
Hunter had the exit open a crack, letting roars from the distant WarDome drift in from the night outside, along with the occasional deathbee. The insects crawled over the agent’s cheeks, along her fluttering eyelashes, and Lemon had to suppress a shiver as she rejoined her by the door.
“The way is clear,” she whispered.
“You sure?”
Hunter nodded. “A Hunter sees with many eyes, Lemonfresh.”
“Right,” the girl replied. “Out into the street, walk it like we own it, head straight for the gate. If a patrol stops us, keep your deathbees calm, let me talk. Fizzy?”
Hunter nodded and the pair slipped out from the store, closing the door behind them. The market was almost completely deserted, the population of New Bethlehem all turned out for the Dome. A few gutter runners standing around a burning drum gave them a curious look as they passed. A Disciple patrol was gathered under the PA speaker, pondering why it had shorted out.
Lemon’s heart was thumping in her chest, her skin tingling at the feeling of a grift done right. Maybe she was imagining it, maybe it was just the relief, but those meds were making her feel better already. The night was bright and her pockets were full and she was starting to think they were free and clear.
Until they passed by the Brotherhood’s stage at the other end of the square again.
She tried not to look. Tried not to notice the two figures nailed up on those Xs. The way the Brotherhood had patched up the bullet wound in the girl’s chest so she wouldn’t bleed out before she’d suffered. The way a dozen Brotherhood thugs were slouching on the steps in front of those hanging bodies, laughing and jawing as if nothing were amiss. As if they’d not nailed up two kids to suffocate under their own weight beneath tomorrow’s sun.
The dead don’t fight another day, she reminded herself.
Just because they’re like you, doesn’t make them crew.
She missed Evie, she realized.
She missed Ezekiel and Cricket and the feeling she was wrapped up in a story much bigger than herself. It was easier back then, just being the sidekick. Dragged along for the ride, expected to contribute nothing more than the occasional quip and maybe a shoulder to cry on.
Her shoulders weren’t strong enough for anything else, after all.
She wasn’t big enough to do this on her own.
Was she?
“Stop,” she whispered.
Hunter reached inside her cloak, instantly alert, scanning the night around them for danger. “Trouble?”
“Not yet,” she sighed.
Lemon looked to the stage behind them, those kids strung up to die.
“But I think I’m about to make some.”
Be careful what you wish for.
Cricket knew this song like he knew his own name. The stamping feet and rising cheers. The hiss of pistons and the percussion of metal bodies colliding. Bright lights and ultra-violence, the crowd safe behind concrete barriers and rusting iron bars, secure in the knowledge that the things fighting and bleeding out and dying on the killing floor couldn’t feel a thing.
WarDome.
The big bot waited in a work pit below the Dome floor, watching the boy named Abraham seal up his chest cavity and bolt it closed. The dustneck brothers Murph and Mike stood on the sidelines, offering suggestions and being politely ignored. Abraham was obviously something of an expert on bot tech—he’d replaced Cricket’s faulty powercells without much fuss, given how big they were. The big bot could feel new current rolling through his limbs, power crackling at his fingertips. Internal readouts showed he was almost back at full capacity, and ready to roll.
“How do you feel?” the boy asked in his soft voice.
Cricket simply stared, blue eyes aglow.
“It’s all right, you can speak,” Abraham said. “What’re your power levels at?”
“NINETY-TWO PERCENT,” Cricket replied.
“That’ll be plenty,” the boy nodded. “Your opponent in tonight’s match is called the Thunderstorm. It’s the champion WarBot from a settlement down south called the Edge. It’s only nine thousand horsepower, but it fights dirty. We’re running live ballistics, so—”
“I DON’T WANT TO GO UP THERE,” Cricket said.
Abraham
