They called to Megwit several times over their com-links, but there was no response. Each call came with growing irritation. Sixty-Two quietly listened to them. The two crewmen, a pilot and a commander, were annoyed. He didn’t blame them.
“Megwit, you drunken bastard, come out of there!” the commander of the skimmer called out at last.
Sixty-Two maintained radio silence, as did his obedient fellows. They listened and they waited.
The commander cursed and publicly consigned Megwit’s soul to various unpleasant forms of abuse. Sixty-Two thought the man was not far off from actual events. Finally, the commander exited his skimmer and approached the operator’s shack.
This was the moment Sixty-Two had been waiting for. “Rise, workers!” he called over a private channel. “Restrain the humans and take the skimmer!”
All around the compound the sands exploded. Tall, hulking shapes of gleaming metal rose to their feet and strode forward purposefully. Dozens of them clanked toward the skimmer.
Sixty-Two had envisioned an easy victory. His plan was simplicity itself: his mechs would grab the men, seize the skimmer and force them to fly it out of Sunside. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to go, perhaps a wild area of Twilight, but anywhere was better than here. Machinery operated better in cold than it did in heat and grit, so perhaps he’d force them to fly his little army to the dark depths of Nightside.
Unfortunately, things went wrong almost immediately. The commander, shocked and terrified, drew a sidearm and began blasting at the approaching mechs. The skimmer pilot, equally alarmed, revved the engines for an emergency liftoff.
Seeing one of his mechs sag down to a crawling position, one leg blown off and casting sparks over the sands, Sixty-Two shouted new orders: “Those that are nearest the ship, board her now! Stop it from lifting off by any means necessary. Stop the humans NOW!”
The mechs, following their new imperatives he’d programmed into them, sprang into action. The first one to reach the commander took his head off with a gripper around the neck. The skull popped loose, still in its light blue crash helmet. The decapitated body flopped down and sprayed the sands, turning them instantly into a dark crust. The helmet rolled away with the head still inside it, leaving a dribbling trail behind.
Most of the mechs rushed to board the skimmer. After having witnessed the fate of his commander, the pilot tried to lift off. Mechs clambered aboard, and more latched their grippers upon the skids and airfoils. A dozen of them were on it, then a dozen more. Still, the skimmer managed to lift itself into the air fifty feet or so, despite the weight.
Sixty-Two cursed wildly. None of his mechs responded. This was not how he’d expected matters to go. He hadn’t anticipated the crew’s terrified reaction. He hadn’t meant to kill anyone. Things had spun out of control.
Worse still, something was wrong with the skimmer. Had one of the mechs made it into the cockpit? Had the mechs unbalanced the craft, or burned out one of the lifters with their incredible weight? Sixty-Two didn’t know, but he was certain the skimmer was going down.
It slid sideways, and crashed down into the processing warehouse, the biggest building in the compound.
“Let go!” Sixty-Two shouted. “Jump off the skimmer!”
He watched as a number of mechs did as he ordered. Others were too tangled with the crashing ship and went down with it. A fireball plumed over the desert floor and the shockwave rocked his chassis.
Sixty-Two ran toward the burning wreckage. He had to salvage as many of his faithful mechs as he could. He knew now that his plan had been critically flawed from the beginning. The skimmer could not have carried his army, and the humans were not going to allow him his freedom willingly. The first thing they had done was open fire! If this had been a military vessel, his entire organization would have been wiped out.
After ascertaining that the pilot was indeed as dead as his commander, Sixty-Two found the replacement serf, still strapped into his jumpseat. He was as dead as the others.
Sixty-Two was left with a knot of worry in his mind. He had a headache, even though he knew that physical sensation should have been impossible. What was he going to do? He’d lost three mechs in the crash. He’d managed to quickly repair the rest, but he knew they could not stay here any longer. They must flee. The pilot had probably managed to get off a distress call, and even if he hadn’t, more airships were sure to come and investigate soon. After that, there would be military aircraft. He and his fellows would be annihilated.
Less than an hour after the crash, the surviving mechs abandoned the facility and followed their sworn leader into the trackless wastes on foot. Only Sixty-Two himself was armed. He carried the skimmer commander’s pistol in his gripper.
Sixty-Two knew they had to move quickly and decisively. He needed more mechs, more machinery and more weapons. He had located all the neighboring mines in the region on maps prior to executing his failed takeover of the skimmer. He’d done so originally as part of his plan to avoid the encampments. Now, however, his plans had changed. He would have to assault the camps and raid them for whatever he needed. He had his new mech programming stored on a data crystal, and he would upload it into every mech he could find.
He felt he was caught up in something bigger than he’d ever intended to make it, but he also felt he had no choice in the matter. When they found him now, the agents of the nobility would be merciless. He would be reduced to scrap.
In addition to his concerns for himself, his thoughts had expanded on the matter to include the lives of the mechs around him. They’d all been humans once, just as he had been. They all had families somewhere. He wasn’t entirely human anymore, and neither were they, but did they not still deserve to live?
Sixty-Two believed that they did.
Aareschlucht was a corvette-class ship named after a famous gorge in Old Switzerland, which had an even more impressive equivalent on Neu Schweitz. Both gorges cut through mountain valleys in-between craggy Alps on their respective worlds. Both were dangerous and beautiful places that moved a great deal of water downhill very quickly. Like its namesake, Aareschlucht was built for movement at great speed, and little else.
Aldo Moreno had signed onto Aareschlucht after Droad’s urging, and he’d never regretted a decision more intensely in his life. How Droad had talked him into this fool’s errand was beyond him. He stood in awe of the accomplishment. Aldo had never before thought of Droad as more than an unusually capable and dedicated politician, but now he stood corrected: the man was a sly devil with a silver tongue dipped in honey.
Aldo hated the ship. He hated the smell of stale, canned air. The monofilament filters and carbon dioxide scrubbers worked tirelessly, but they could never quite remove the odors of the other crewmen. There was no such thing as a fresh breeze, something he had enjoyed and come to take for granted after long years wandering the mountain cantons of Neu Schweitz. Even the water was fouled with a chemical taste. Everything was recycled, even the shitty paste the crew called food. He suspected it was their own waste processed by algae in the tanks that never stopped churning below decks. The taste of waste never quite left it, no matter how it was seasoned, baked or stewed.
So many details Droad had left out of his description of this ‘adventure’! Cryo-sleep would have been a blessing, but no, it was denied to them all. There were no pods aboard for the purpose. He and sixteen other crewmen were forced to spend the year-long voyage fully awake in a living space no larger than a city restaurant, and nowhere near as comfortably appointed.