themselves, just their voices broadcast in the room. Like someone had left a walkie-talkie on one of the seats.
I slumped in relief, took a single step forward, then saw what was broadcasting the voices. And believe me, it was no walkie-talkie.
Instead, I found myself staring at my first cyborg monster.
Imagine the body of an orangutan, squat and muscular with long arms. Now replace the fur with elephant skin—except as slimy as a slug’s foot—and the hands with knobby paddles.
And instead of a head, picture a helmet: a glowing dome, like an upside-down punchbowl with an oil slick swirling in it.
Roach’s “little pet.” A monkeybeast.
One of the first generation of biodroids, though I didn’t know that yet. A crude version, because Roach didn’t have the Protocol … but still dangerous. Still deadly.
Most of the creatures—or machines or whatever—built by the Center were made for scientific applications. Like that snakeskin fridge, or even, I guess, that fiber-optic centipede, which—
That was one of my designs. An experimentalemergency medical unit for disaster response. A mobile, self-guided medic with nanotech healing capacity .
Yeah, I got that. Especially the “experimental” part.
Anyway,
Roach’
s biodroids were made for one thing and one thing only: destruction.
I stared at the monkeybeast, holding my breath. Afraid to move, even though it was facing the opposite direction.
Then, with one last crackle of static, the voices stopped. A gear whined and the shimmer of the biodroid’s helmet intensified. Its arms shifted unnaturally and seemed to break backward. A second later, its legs did the same.
Suddenly, the thing
was
facing me.
A bony knob on its shoulder swiveled and throbbed; then its legs tensed and the monkeybeast leapt from chair to chair—right toward me!
I slammed the door and ran, but a second later, the thing smashed through and skidded across the hall to the opposite wall. The biodroid wasted a few seconds stomping the wreckage of the door into smaller bits of wreckage—nasty temper. Then it turned toward me, and a stubby gun barrel slid from its armpit.
I dodged behind a snack machine, and the monkeybeast blasted a hole in concrete wall down the corridor.
Looking around, I saw … nothing. No way out. Just a longhallway with a few doors at one end and a snack machine in the middle.
And a monkeybeast, stalking closer for the kill.
For the record, Douglas, the machine to which you are referring did not vend snacks .
Looked like a snack machine to me.
That particular model dispensed preprogrammed nutrient media for the researchers, for propagation of—
Whatever. I’m pretty sure I saw potato chips.
Anyway, the vending machine didn’t offer much cover. And once the biodroid stepped closer, the machine offered no cover at all.
Just me and a monkeybeast, five feet apart. The gun muzzle swiveled, aiming at my forehead.
Killed by an armpit gun. What a way to go.
I closed my eyes and waited for the end.
THE CREEPING DOOM
Then I heard something.
A scrabbling. A
pok! Pok-pok! Bzzzzt—thwing!
I opened one eye and saw the biodroid reeling backward, swaying and stumbling and beating itself on the face andneck. It was trying to dislodge the centipede draped across its head, five fiber-optic antennae wriggling madly, trying to burrow into the droid.
I understood in a flash that the centipede had been trying to protect me, to save me from the monkeybeast. It hadn’t been trying to
eat
me; it had been trying to
herd
me.
Well, I can take a hint.
I stood and ran. The sounds of the fight—crashing and pounding and an electric zapping—followed me around the corner and through the double doors. As I fled, I frantically consulted the map from the snake-fridge room that had been helpfully translated into
Arsenal Five
levels.
I saw the route in a flash and shoved through swinging doors into a small medical bay. In the corner, I crawled under a storage cabinet to an
I slumped in relief, took a single step forward, then saw what was broadcasting the voices. And believe me, it was no walkie-talkie.
Instead, I found myself staring at my first cyborg monster.
Imagine the body of an orangutan, squat and muscular with long arms. Now replace the fur with elephant skin—except as slimy as a slug’s foot—and the hands with knobby paddles.
And instead of a head, picture a helmet: a glowing dome, like an upside-down punchbowl with an oil slick swirling in it.
Roach’s “little pet.” A monkeybeast.
One of the first generation of biodroids, though I didn’t know that yet. A crude version, because Roach didn’t have the Protocol … but still dangerous. Still deadly.
Most of the creatures—or machines or whatever—built by the Center were made for scientific applications. Like that snakeskin fridge, or even, I guess, that fiber-optic centipede, which—
That was one of my designs. An experimentalemergency medical unit for disaster response. A mobile, self-guided medic with nanotech healing capacity .
Yeah, I got that. Especially the “experimental” part.
Anyway,
Roach’
s biodroids were made for one thing and one thing only: destruction.
I stared at the monkeybeast, holding my breath. Afraid to move, even though it was facing the opposite direction.
Then, with one last crackle of static, the voices stopped. A gear whined and the shimmer of the biodroid’s helmet intensified. Its arms shifted unnaturally and seemed to break backward. A second later, its legs did the same.
Suddenly, the thing
was
facing me.
A bony knob on its shoulder swiveled and throbbed; then its legs tensed and the monkeybeast leapt from chair to chair—right toward me!
I slammed the door and ran, but a second later, the thing smashed through and skidded across the hall to the opposite wall. The biodroid wasted a few seconds stomping the wreckage of the door into smaller bits of wreckage—nasty temper. Then it turned toward me, and a stubby gun barrel slid from its armpit.
I dodged behind a snack machine, and the monkeybeast blasted a hole in concrete wall down the corridor.
Looking around, I saw … nothing. No way out. Just a longhallway with a few doors at one end and a snack machine in the middle.
And a monkeybeast, stalking closer for the kill.
For the record, Douglas, the machine to which you are referring did not vend snacks .
Looked like a snack machine to me.
That particular model dispensed preprogrammed nutrient media for the researchers, for propagation of—
Whatever. I’m pretty sure I saw potato chips.
Anyway, the vending machine didn’t offer much cover. And once the biodroid stepped closer, the machine offered no cover at all.
Just me and a monkeybeast, five feet apart. The gun muzzle swiveled, aiming at my forehead.
Killed by an armpit gun. What a way to go.
I closed my eyes and waited for the end.
THE CREEPING DOOM
Then I heard something.
A scrabbling. A
pok! Pok-pok! Bzzzzt—thwing!
I opened one eye and saw the biodroid reeling backward, swaying and stumbling and beating itself on the face andneck. It was trying to dislodge the centipede draped across its head, five fiber-optic antennae wriggling madly, trying to burrow into the droid.
I understood in a flash that the centipede had been trying to protect me, to save me from the monkeybeast. It hadn’t been trying to
eat
me; it had been trying to
herd
me.
Well, I can take a hint.
I stood and ran. The sounds of the fight—crashing and pounding and an electric zapping—followed me around the corner and through the double doors. As I fled, I frantically consulted the map from the snake-fridge room that had been helpfully translated into
Arsenal Five
levels.
I saw the route in a flash and shoved through swinging doors into a small medical bay. In the corner, I crawled under a storage cabinet to an
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