It wasn’t fast enough and the twin-tanked robot broadsided Mr. U., toppled on its side and spritzed a yellow liquid out of its mangled barrels. A stream of it tinkled on Mr. U., enough to start smoking.
Whatever was in those tanks was dangerous stuff. Another nearby honeycomb rack of blinking, smallwinged robots was coated with it. They and their metal rack began to collapse in on themselves.
Mr. U. ignored its ruined plating and spun on Remo, only to find Remo gone. It spun left, then right, then did a complete circle before its sensors located the movement that had to be its target.
Allessandro Cote was as miserable as he could have ever been. To fail was despicable; to fail like this, paralyzed and helpless, was disgraceful.
“Please, I can’t move!”
“Here you go,” Remo said. He took Cote by the hand and squeezed his fingers around the tiny joystick on the chair. Then he fiddled with Cote’s neck, looking for the correct nerve combination.
Cote twitched, face and body and fingers, which sent the track-mounted chair flying backward while spinning fast. The chair reached the end of the track and halted abruptly, then Cote’s body twitched again, violently, and he found himself flying the other way.
“Hey, Mr. U., let’s see what you’ve got!” Remo shouted.
Cote tried to make a noise, but he managed nothing more than a squeak that became a grunt as he twitched and jolted and spun sickeningly. Amid the chaos, he was terrified to see the flash of a rocket, which brightened in his vision, only to vanish as another violent twitch of his nerves sent him spinning and veered away.
Remo led the small rocket like a fox teasing the hounds, leading it through high-powered figure eights. Remo steered it directly into the next robot he came to, then stepped into a conveniently vacated wall cubicle for cover.
The explosion sent mechanical parts raining in all directions, and Remo was now feeling ready to take on the big Mr. U. himself. He eased out of the cubicle as the chrome automaton fired another rocket and ran into the open to give the little missile an easy target, stepping aside just before it slammed into his chest. Then he took hold of the rocket.
“Bet you didn’t think I could do that, did you?” Remo called to Mr. U. as he held the hot little thing in two fingers, shaking it like a match to extinguish it.
Mr. U. couldn’t seem to figure out what had happened or what he should do next.
“Does not compute, huh?” Remo asked it “Here. Think about this.”
Remo flicked his wrist and sent the tiny rocket back to its sender, sent it faster than the little solid-fuel engine could ever have propelled it, and Mr. U. didn’t have time to get out of the way. The rocket shot underneath Mr. U.’s deck and hit the floor, detonating and lifting Mr. U. on a destructive pressure burst that burned it up the center. When Mr. U. landed, it was split up the middle all the way to its chrome skull.
Mr. U. wasn’t dead yet. It jerkily distended its arm and fed power to its drive system, its two halves lurching about in search of its assailant
Somebody tapped Mr. U. on the shoulder.
“Here I am.”
Mr. U.’s grinning face spun 180 degrees to find its assailant standing right behind it, and its programming sent it into its last-ditch, close-combat defense protocol. With a savage lunge it bit down hard. Its programming assured it that its assailant’s forearm had just been amputated.
Its programming could not account for the bizarre nature of the disparity in its sensor position, which told it that its head and its body now moved independent of one another.
“Heads. You lose.”
Mr. U.’s visual sensors saw its own torso rushing at it very fast.
By the time Remo had pounded the droid skull into a much smaller round metal lump, Mr. U. was nonfunctional.
“You’re a mess,” Remo said to Cote, who had by this time vomited on himself repeatedly, the rapid gyration of the chair spreading it everywhere. Remo picked his way through the puddles and brought Cote to a halt with a swift kick that jammed the chair in its track. It began smoking slightly. Cote toppled out.
“Disgusting,” Chiun observed, now standing outside the splash zone.
“You okay, Little Father?”
“I have recovered, my son. I assume I am now allowed to come out of my room?”
“It would have been okay a long time ago. Like when I was being shot at with missiles and so on.”
“I saw you playing with your toys and did not want to interfere. Did you break all your toys as a child, as well?”
“Didn’t have any,” Remo said with a shrug. “What’s that?”
Chiun held up a handful of cables attached to quarter-size glass devices. “Ask the man with the digestive instability. They were in his wall, observing your frolics. I removed them while you were amusing yourself.”
“Well, Cote, what are they?”
Cote lay on the floor, heaving, stinking, twitching, wishing he could die. Remo gingerly touched his neck and Cote’s body was working again, sort of. He sat up and nearly fell over again from the dizziness.
“Cote, answer the question.”
“Video pickups, what do you think?”
“Him? Not much of anything,” Chiun explained.
“Can it. Okay, Cote, we want some real answers now. You’re too stupid to have planned this whole scheme on your own. Who did? Where are they? What are they up to? Why were they watching us?”
“Go to hell, miserable bleeding bastards.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” Remo said. “You’re dedicated to your fairy tale. Let’s see if this will convince you to not stay in character.”
Remo touched Cote’s neck again, and Cote began panting and whimpering, racked with unbearable pain. He snapped in mere seconds.
“I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything.”
Chapter 13
The audio feed still worked even if the video was out. They heard Allessandro Cote say, “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Way to have an iron will, Cote,” said the crew-cut teenager, rolling his eyes to his father. “He’s a dick. Dad.”
“He may be an unpleasant man—”
“Not to mention nuttier than a fruitcake.”
“He may be delusional, as well, but he has kept you and I well provided for,” Fastbinder said.
“That money well is running dry as we speak. Can we take him out?” The boy’s blue eyes were bright with anticipation.
“Yes, I suppose we must.”
“Can I push the button?”
“Go ahead. Push the button.”
The teenage kid leaned back in his chair and reached for one of the many computer terminals scattered around their small work area. He tapped a few keys and grinned broadly.
“’Bye-bye, dick,” the kid said. “I just wish I could see it go down.”
Cote looked wildly around as the ballroom filled with the whirs and buzzing sounds of more automatons coming to life.
“What’s happening?” Cote shouted.
“Remo,” Chiun asked, “did you accidentally lean on any buttons?”
“No way, uh-uh.”
“That son of a bitch!” Cote exclaimed.
Remo and Chiun put themselves between the advancing mechanicals. The attack was spearheaded by a rotor-driven airborne device that was as big as a garbage can, and it swept down on Remo, firing high-velocity rounds from an air gun. Remo dodged the rounds and tried to draw its attention away from Cote, but the machine had a one-track mind. It ignored Remo, gunning for the arms merchant, until Remo ran up underneath it, jumped twice his own height and snatched it by the bottom-mounted gun barrel. It came down with him, still firing, rotors buzzing to their maximum speed in a bid for freedom, but Remo used it to sweep at the wave of rolling, plodding robots that came after it.
There was a series of rolling, rodentlike robots that turned to flee but were chopped up by the spinning rotors, then the tread-mounted doglike robot was smashed and it collapsed on its side, treads spinning uselessly.