The Medida War Page 2

  It glided up in a sweeping arc, turning in a wide gyre, before it plunged like a stone to the ground at incredible speed. It extended its three claws outward, ready to grab at its prey.

  It expertly pecked out the tryphon's eyes before it could fight back, it then perched on the snake's back, out of reach of its vicious fangs and it tore clumps of meat from its body.

  So intent was it upon its purpose that the bird of prey was almost oblivious to the first strafing bullets that spattered around it. By the time it launched itself into the air with the remains of the tryphon in its mouth, a grenade had exploded nearby, tearing off its left wing. It sank screeching to the ground as a torrent of bullets and lasers ripped through it.

  A metallic boot crushed its corpse into the sand. Then a second, and a third as MD's warbots charged the ABC Warriors.

  Above the blaze of battle, Rosesand watched with grim satisfaction. It was fortuitous that his associate in the outer worlds had advised him about the Warriors' return to Mars. It had given him plenty of time to plan this trap.

  He watched the one with the crimson cloak carefully; the one with the sepulchral voice that moved like a shadow from some hellish nightmare. The one with the knight's helmet, demonic grilled grin and blood-fire eyes. His gaunt figure reared like a towering tombstone, phasing in and out as he swept towards the warbots. Deadlock was as real and as hard as granite one moment, and the next, but then he would fade and shimmer like a phantom. He was unlike any robot before or since; he was a fusion of science and the supernatural. Rosesand knew that and so did Snnktts! He was the one they would have to watch, the old man reflected.

  Deadlock leapt high above the violent fray, sweeping his cloak outward like the wings of a flying behemoth. He didn't bother to unsheathe his great broadsword. In an effortlessly slow plunge, he descended on his assailants, burying several of them beneath his outstretched mantle. Under the cloak, Seraph could make out the bleating electronic squeals and the violently struggling shapes of some of his militia. When again Deadlock stood, Seraph could see the mangled destruction, spitting fused energy, sprawled in a twisted and crushed pile at the feet of the dark one.

  The sandstorm came again in a howling, thickening drape, momentarily obscuring Deadlock's figure. When it melted away, he had vanished. Through Seraph's muffled veil, his one good eye darted about seeking out the dread figure of Deadlock, but to no avail.

  Then his attention turned to five powerful figures that advanced swiftly from the blistering heart of the sandstorm. Blackblood, Hammerstein, Morrigun and Joe Pineapples marched side-by-side, around the awesome killdozer body of Mek-Quake, laying down a sweeping suppressive line of explosive fire at the warbots. The antique machines were giving a surprisingly good account of themselves, Seraph reflected, but this did not concern him greatly. State of the art weapons often had problems dealing with obsolete machinery. It was one of the dilemmas they were always discussing in the Invention Exchange.

  Hammerstein charged into battle at the head of the Warriors, his great hammer bludgeoning the enemy with deadly effect. It was Hammerstein who cut the most heroic image of all the Warriors. In contrast to the black medieval phantasm of Deadlock, Hammerstein's square-jawed heroism and American-style helmet suggested some celebrated GI fighting in an ancient Earth war for freedom and justice. His fearsome power was matched by his legendary will that would see good win through. He waded into the scattering warbots with a steely imperative and the unmatched skill of a great warrior.

  With rising consternation and grudging admiration, Seraph Rosesand observed the turning tide of his fortunes. His cyclopean eye pierced the storm and fell next on the one they called Blackblood; the green-scaled robot with the road drill peg leg. His insect-like movements were darting and swift, despite the large pack he was carrying on his back. He had a hyperactive agitation about him. Seraph watched as Blackblood machine-gunned his warbots, somehow slipping round behind them and shooting them in the back.

  "Die, you motherfraggers!" Blackblood snarled. His voice flowed from him like treacle. It was thick with sarcasm and hate. Blackblood had a small, yet commanding presence and he made Seraph nervous. Even from this relative distance, he always kept Blackblood in view. It wasn't prudent to have Blackblood out of your sights for a minute, Seraph thought.

  Then the ground beneath the warbots began to shudder and tremor. A mound of sand started to swell in their centrum. The warbots, reacting swiftly, were already firing at the fast expanding sand heap in their midst before it exploded. The ape-like face of Mongrol tore out of it. Though barely sentient, he had tunnelled his way under the warbots' positions using his enormous power-paws.

  He punched a hole through one of the warbots in close proximity to him. The electric scream of his victim excited him further. "Mongrol smush!" he roared as his enormous fists punched more warbots through the air. Each blow was delivered with sufficient power to kill them outright.

  The beautiful silver and red female robot called Morrigun was scything through warbots with her moon flails. She moved with a graceful, yet cybernetic animal gait. Her imposing body was shaped like that of a classical dancer - slender yet rippling with nano-generated muscle. And all the while her headlocks tinkled.

  Snnktts made an exulting sound and said something in Sirian. Even though he could discern the word Morrigun; it was incomprehensible to Seraph. When he asked for an explanation, Snnktts replied, "I cannot. There are rules." Occasionally Snnktts would do this; usually it was when it was something very important or when it involved death. Apparently there were cosmic rules that forbade Snnktts to impart all his knowledge, and it was a rule that even Snnktts dare not break.

  The long serrated "T" shaped, snakehead of Mek-Quake leered down at more warbots as his tank body ran them over. "Big Job! Big Jobs!" he howled, triumphantly, as he gleefully sprayed survivors with his heavy guns. He'd had a few litres of Brent Crude before he left the spaceship and was feeling particularly malevolent. Several burst into flames, their limbs scattering across the red and sifting sand.

  The machine's an imbecile, thought Hoodwink, but still highly dangerous.

  He couldn't see Joe Pineapples now, the tall cool robot with the shades who had a reputation as the Galaxy's greatest sniper. But every so often his warbots would fall as they were hit by metal-piercing sniper fire.

  There was a thunderous growl. It came from the imposing, three metre high, spiky weapons platform that was Mass Destruction as it came into view. Even Mongrol paused for a moment, impressed by its arsenal of multiple guns targeting the Warriors.

  "I am called Mass Destruction," it announced tonelessly. "I have come to deactivate you inhumanely."

  Then MD began to fire from all its guns. The power it displayed was devastating. Firing in unison were rocket launchers, machine guns, laser cannons, grenades and napalm. The ABCs were punched back by the sheer force of MD's firepower.

  Deadlock was drenched in napalm and it torched his cloak. Bullets bounced off his mouth grille and a few found their way inside. Blackblood's scaly armour was lacerated by laser fire. Half of Hammerstein's head was taken out by a shell, leaving only wires hanging down his face like hair. Rocket fire enveloped Mongrol in flame. A jet-propelled spike went through Morrigun's chest. A well-aimed bullet tore one of Mek-Quake's eyes out. Robot-seeking missiles found Joe Pineapple's hiding place and gave him something to think about.

  This is better, thought Rosesand. This is more like it.

  "Go massive!" said Hammerstein and the Warriors charged forward for close combat with MD. Mongrol was the first to reach him. He moved surprisingly fast on his short stubby legs and delivered a devastating blow with his right power paw in what he took to be MD's face.

  "Ah, yes," sneered MD, unmoved by the blow. "You must be Mongrol. And that must be an example of smushing. Rather average, if you don't mind me saying so."

  "Maybe you like this better?" snarled Mongrol, and gave him an uppercut with the left.

  "Hmm," mused MD, all
the time shooting and drilling and gouging Mongrol with his various weapons and attachments. "A bit better. I believe you were created by a battle-comber called Lara? Put together from bits and pieces lying around the battlefield? I gather she was pretty attractive? I wouldn't have minded meeting her myself. Maybe she could have given me a bit of a workout too."

  To Mongrol, his creator Lara was a goddess. Not even Blackblood dared to say anything insulting about Lara. "Shut mouth! You not fit to lick Lara's boots!"

  "Well, it wasn't her boots I had in mind."

  "Now you get Mongrol in one of his - states! Mongrol not use guns on you, Mongrol smush you with his bare hands! Laaarraaa!"

  This time his blows hurled MD backwards. Mongrol hurled himself after them. "Mongrol mess you for even daring to speak her name!"

  Blackblood was impressed by MD's style. He imagined they probably had a lot in common. MD looked like the sort of robot that enjoyed watching films of attacks on unarmed civilians, hospitals, that kind of thing. Blackblood certainly did and he felt that in another time and place they might have swapped movies from their respective collections. But now he was most definitely the enemy and a very lethal one, so he didn't really want to get up close and personal with him. Not until he'd got the upper hand. Then he'd be happy to try out some circuit corrosive on him.

  Blackblood considered which selection of weapons in his backpack would be most suited for the occasion. There were the atom-mek, or limpet "monkey" bombs. Or the "gut burner" anti-personnel cannon shells. The orphan-shredding shrapnel mines. The widowmaker scythe missiles. And a couple of his old favourites: the flesh-boiler incendiary grenades.

  In the end, he settled for the monkey bombs. They had their own built-in jets so all he had to do was release them. While Mongrol was busy doing smushing things to MD, the monkey bombs attached themselves to MD's back and began making interesting ticking sounds.

  "Ah," sighed MD. "The old Volgan 'monkey on the back' grenades, eh, Blackblood? Once they're on your back, you never get them off. That is just so tiresome. Surely you realise I have a bomb-disposal package fitted as standard that neutralizes all such explosive devices?" The ticking stopped.

  "You've been drinking too much Brent Crude. You should have retired with your Straw Dogs, old robot, when you had the chance."

  Blackblood looked startled that MD knew all about his past. "Oh, yes, I was one of your biggest fans once. But that was before you sold out and joined the ABCs."

  MD lobbed a couple of hyper-grenades in Blackblood's direction. "Why don't we do a swap? It will be interesting to see if you have a bomb-disposal package, too."

  But judging by the way Blackblood leapt into the nearest crater to shield himself from the savage explosions, apparently it was not.

  By now Hammerstein had reached Mass Destruction and was assisting Mongrol, laying into MD with his hammer. He and Mongrol didn't get in each other's way when they did this. After many years of training together in the gym, they were highlt practised in synchronized smushing. "This will take you through the pain barrier!" he snarled at MD.

  It was necessary for all sentient robots to feel pain in order to achieve full consciousness. A lack of awareness led to a lack of intelligence. An example of a robot with a minimal pain barrier would be Mek-Quake. And no one really wanted to be like Mek-Quake.

  Consequently, a robot as complex as MD must have a pain threshold, although neither Mongrol nor Hammerstein seemed to have reached it yet.

  "But do keep trying," encouraged MD. "Although, I don't think I'm quite ready for the smelter yet." He delivered impressive blows at both of them. "By the way, what do the initials 'ABC' stand for? Antique burnt-out crates?"

  "You bootleg!" snarled Hammerstein. Calling a robot a "bootleg," questioning his manufacture and the legality of his serial number, was a common insult used by humans and robots alike. And Hammerstein followed it up with equally unpleasant ones: "You waste outlet! You piston head!" His hammer slammed into MD's face again and again.

  Morrigun used her art of nekra-chi to release the spike from her body. Then she threw her pentang stars at MD as she ran forward. They were powered by Khaos and worked their way to the central logic plexus of machines, short-circuiting the nerve looms that controlled the main servomechanisms.

  Several of them dug evilly into MD.

  "Oh, dear, dear," sighed MD. "The old pentangs. Powered by Khaos, they work their way to the central logic plexus of machines, short-circuiting the nerve looms that control the main servomechanisms. Surely you must realise, as an emissary of order, I'm fully battle-hardened against all weapons that use khaotic energy? Clearly not. Try my 'achtungs' instead." Some swastika-like devices came whizzing Morrigun's way and it took all her arts of nekra-chi to avoid them.

  Morrigun reached MD and prepared to teach this arrogant automaton a terminal lesson. Her beautiful face slid open to reveal a particularly evil gun that now spat death directly into MD. "Oh, dear, dear," sighed MD once again. "You're not a waitress at the Piston Broke anymore, you know? That sort of thing may inhibit the low tek customers there, but we're not in the Tin Age anymore. Why don't you make yourself useful and bring me some wonder-lube and, after I've finished dealing with your comrades, I'll let you rub it in me?"

  Morrigun's reaction was to snarl something in Mara, the language of the sinister occult sisterhood she joined after leaving the Piston Broke. Wielding her moon flails, she joined in the close-quarter aggravation with Hammerstein and Mongrol.

  Deadlock did not join in the free-for-all, despite Hammerstein's command. He only took orders from Hammerstein when it suited him and it didn't suit him now. He was interested in the organ grinder, not the monkey. He wanted to know who was controlling Mass Destruction, and who was in the business of grinding organs.

  He was also so angry he was spitting bullets. Some of them had torn apart delicate neural networking inside him that would require delicate and careful self-repair. Worse, his cloak was completely ruined. As he spat the last of the bullets from his mouth grille, he ruminated on the matter.

  He knew there was no point in giving Mass Destruction a kick in the ball bearings. It was his master he wanted. But where was he or she? The sandstorm was dying away now; it had resolved into drifting ringlets of tiny swirls. The robot wizard's sinister eyes scanned the surrounding mountains for the one he sensed must be watching.

  The bullet that took out one of Mek-Quake's eye cameras had not been an entirely negative experience. Because his brain was also contained in the same headpiece, the impact had the same effect as his daily computer upgrade. The other Warriors had discovered that some of Mek-Quake's nano-brain circuitry had become ossified, and that a violent blow administered once a day seemed to free it up and increase his brainpower, albeit temporarily. They really hated having to do this to their comrade. In fact, they had a roster for whose turn it was to punch Mek-Quake in the face next.

  Now equipped with a little more intelligence, or rather a little less stupidity than usual, Mek-Quake tore into Mass Destruction with glee. Normally, he would have driven right over him and had his underneath ripped apart by MD's spikes, but on this occasion he circled him. He was keen to try out his new vacuum-powered slurp-gun and attempted to suck out MD's circuitry with it. This had become exposed in the course of his battle with Mongrol, Hammerstein and Morrigun.

  MD, sensibly, chose not to have any discussion with Mek-Quake. He merely seized hold of Mek-Quake by his neck and rammed his tiny head down into the trumpet-like mouth of the slurp-gun. As he did so, he made a couple of unrepeatable comments about sucking and heads. The considerable suction held his head there and there was a real danger of it being ripped right off.

  Mek-Quake was forced to temporarily withdraw from the conflict. It took him a moment or two to realise that he could actually stop the slurp-gun tearing his head off. All he had to do was take his finger off the trigger.

  Throughout the conflict, Joe Pineapples had been doing his bit in his own unique way. Usi
ng his weapon of choice, the Magnum Macho 3000, with exquisitely aimed shots, he was plugging MD's gun barrels. MD became aware of this when several of them exploded in his face and a couple exploded internally.

  Some of his smugness started to disappear. Especially with Mongrol, Morrigun and Hammerstein on top of him, all inflicting some heavy-duty damage to his bodywork. It was starting to get a bit difficult and a strategic retreat was clearly called for. He threw a couple of "scrambled egg" grenades in the air which messed up robots' brain waves. On Mars, they had been made obsolete by the Invention Exchange because most modern robots had anti-scrambler devices. But he was hoping that these enemies might not be so equipped.

  He was only partially correct. The devices had no effect on Hammerstein and Mongrol, who had anti-scramblers fitted as standard features for ABC Warriors, but Morrigun and Mek-Quake were later recruits to their ranks. Morrigun had been a hostess and so such devices were never needed. Even the most difficult client could be dealt with by more conventional means. The same went for Mek-Quake. Originally, he had been in civil construction and heavy lifting, hence the sign that lit up on his chest: Big Jobs. It was also his war cry.

  As a result, both Mek-Quake's and Morrigun's brain waves were seriously affected. They began attacking Mongrol and Hammerstein who tried, but failed, to reason with them. Both were vicious, manic and utterly meksterical.

  In the ensuing melee, Mass Destruction beat a quiet retreat. Joe Pineapples, who was also unaffected by the grenade, would have used his sniper skills to stop him, but they were needed elsewhere. Mek-Quake was stupid and dangerous enough at the best of times, but under the influence of the grenade, he was a life-threatening liability. He had to be dealt with.

  Joe needed a special shot to deal with him, one he'd used before when his comrade had been difficult. An electron microscope sight delivered a microscopic bullet that went through Mek-Quake's eye camera and into his positronic cortex. With maximum enhancement he was just able to see the nano-sized brain. "Surgery time again," he commented as he pulled the trigger.