“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Distantly, he realized the clang was someone kicking him—the voice. His systems were offline, for the most part, or unoperational. He could barely feel it. What was wrong, why was this happening? He’d been going to clock the girl—and, what a nice dull sound the man had made hitting the ground—when—when—?

“Idiot!”

Oh.

Oh.

“Milady?” he buzzed, barely audible as his systems slowly came online, or tried to. “Obsid—”

“Don’t talk to me, moronic piece of scrap metal! I should take you back to the junkyard and then melt you down for computer parts!”

Again, and again, 17 felt her steel foot strike his chest plating. He’d never even heard of her angry enough to—

“I’m angry with good reason, you metal prick!” she snarled at him. “Open your optics now!”

He’d been afraid to do so before, but he couldn’t ignore a direct order. He flickered them on, cringing, and couldn’t help but jump a little: her face was right in front of them. Hesitantly, he realized that situational clarity meant he had to speak, and that she might—

“I can hear your thoughts, Commander 17, and you’ll get your answers when I get mine!”

Obsidian grabbed him just under his metal jaw, at his neck, yanking him to his hoverpad ‘feet’ that were currently running at 56%. It was easy to forget how deceptively strong she was.

“What--?”

“Why did you do that? Why did you hurt the girl?”

17 didn’t have biological systems, so he couldn’t do the classic gulp and swallow, but he did the mechanical equivalent, making a staticky buzz. He had no logical reason ready for her, which was worrying in itself, and that went against programming. He couldn’t say anything that wasn’t… Nothing would get him out of this. He didn’t say anything.

Finally, her eyes narrowed to slits, she answered for him, hedging a correct guess. “Answer: pride.”

Her eyes glared into his.

“I am a machine, I do not have pride,” he lied.

“Bull,” she growled; “It looks like I gave you some. You had to prove, for some reason, that you were capable of hurting or killing them, so you went against programming to do it. Why, I’m not sure. There’s no question… in my mind, at least… that you’re a physically superior creature. But they got under your skin, didn’t they?”

17 remembered the programmed warnings, sirens, and static… but he couldn’t remember what had happened.

With another electronic-sounding growl, half buzz and half burr, she pushed forward the image of a dark-skinned, prone girl on the rough pavement, and then groaning, and—white hot static, sparks, his circuits straining and that sensation he’d come to realize was pain.

The memories made him feel another sensation… fear.

“Smart ‘bot,” Obsidian sneered, still staring straight into his metal face. He didn’t know why, she could see what he was seeing if she wanted to… what was this accomplishing?

Then she stepped back from him and let him go, and his hoverpad made quiet noises of complaint as it was left to keep him aloft by itself. It made him think; why were his systems so damaged? Only drone canons could…

“16.”

He was so damaged he hadn’t heard or sensed the other drone commander behind him. 16, commander of the drones who defended Citadel from Mecca, practically oozed smugness. 17 felt indignance as he thought of the incompetent commander actually getting the drop on him. Obsidian didn’t remark on it, just eyed them both.

“I want you to take over 17’s duties while he is… occupied,” she said.

Fear, now resembling terror, returned. “Milady?”

16’s smugness increased, if that was even possible. “Shall I escort him?”

All of the sudden, the data streams in 17’s head stopped; the information and images from his drone subordinates vanished; he was left with a head that felt empty. It was alien, lonely, and disconcerting. He’d never been separated from them before.

Obsidian smiled at his confusion, almost serene as she stood there with her arms held loosely behind her. “Yes, 16, you can escort him now.”

16 shivered as the data streams were shifted to his own processor. “With pleasure.”

17 felt a surge of dread as the other commander grabbed his forearm and yanked him towards the doors. His hoverpad, abused and spewing smoke now, whined piteously, though it had no intelligence of its own.

He knew where he was going now; they were taking him to the disassembly chamber.

“Ohhhh. Max, I—I’d hit you if my head didn’t hurt so much.”

Max, wincing, offered her another protein bar apologetically. “Sorry, Mal. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

They were back at the underground, which looked sad and empty with just the two of them in it. Normally Randolph would be skulking around, Dagny would be scanning airwaves, and… well, John had slept a lot the short time they’d had him.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“You haven’t noticed that we’ve been pretty much safe? With the other guys I was always running for my life, Dagny especially. But we’re safe. Hell, we got cornered and we’re still okay.”

Mali, clearly mystified, stared at him. She was sitting in her usual tired old armchair, half sprawled. “You think they what—like me? Don’t want to catch me?”

Max shook his head. “My hypothesis was that you’re supposed to be safe.”

She blinked at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know, but those drones didn’t shut down because of the water. They were shut down by something internal.”

“I don’t understand,” she admitted, and that was odd, considering she was the tech-head.

“Neither do I, but this safe thing has been confusing.”

Shrugging, she replied, “It’s not a bad thing, right?”

“No—but—” Max eyed her. “Doesn’t this disturb you even a little bit?”

“Well, of course.”

“You don’t seem disturbed.”

Mali looked visibly irritated now. “I am, and anyway, that’s surely not the only explanation for this.”

“A drone commander punched you and then got shot in the back by another commander. I don’t know, I’m not coming up with many ideas, here.” Max sighed, tearing off another chunk of protein bar with his teeth. He didn’t think to swallow before adding, dubiously, “Maybe I’m just tired.”

She made a face at him, swatting playfully at his head. “Eww. Chew.”

Max blushed. “Sorry.”

“I’m just—a very calm person, and since I’m still alive, I’m feeling good about everything. You know? Sometimes you have to settle with the small victories,” Mali noted. “Anyway, it’s been a while since we slept. Maybe we should. Let this stuff sort itself out.”

“You’re so sure it will?”

She nodded. “I have a good feeling about it. Today worked in our favor. Not…” She grew quiet. “Not in that ship’s favor, but, ours.”

They didn’t speak for a moment, thinking back on all of the explosions, and then Max broke the silence.

“Do you think we should have brought that guy back with us? Chris?”

“He’d just be decking you again. He… he can find his way around, he’s a fighting guy,” Mali reasoned unsteadily. She tossed the wrapper of her protein bar into the small bin underneath the computer desk, and stood up. “Thinking about it won’t help anything. We’ll see him if we see him. We’ve been thinking about everyone else for a while—it’s time we thought a little more selfishly, don’t you think?”

Max sighed, “I wish I was just as sure as you.”

She took his hands in hers, and then pulled him to his feet insistently. “You’ll get there. Come on. Sleep time,” she murmured, dragging him towards the bunks.

He sat down on his, expecting her to crawl off by herself as she usually did while she slept, but instead when he laid down, she laid down next to him. She even threw an arm over his torso, snuggling in.

For a few minutes, he struggled with this, trying to figure out what the proper etiquette was for this situation. In the end, he settled for an arm lightly around her waist; she sighed contentedly into his chest at the gesture.

She was very warm, he noted, starting to blush again.

“Max?” she murmured, quiet.

“Y-yes?”

“You over-think everything.”

His blush deepened in color. “I was being that obvious?”

“Yes,” she half-giggled, opening her eyes and turning her head upwards to look at him. “Go to sleep.” Stretching up a moment, she kissed his cheek. “And sleep well,” she added.

Max smiled at her, the tension easing out of his body at last. “Okay. You too.”

He knew only a few more minutes before he succumbed to how tired he was.

They returned late at night, not bothering to be quiet, the snorting and whinnying of their horses particularly echoing in the dead of night. They woke John up almost immediately, an act which also yielded the information that his head hurt again. It had been doing that a lot as of late, ever since Alice Daubi had struck it. He hadn’t mentioned it to Willard. Then again, it was probably just some healing thing, and that was good; there was no need to bug a doctor about a detail if that detail was the body doing something right for once.

He could hear them muttering outside as they dismounted, the quiet thud of boots punctuating their sentences as they hit the ground. They didn’t sound happy. Then again, no one here was ever really happy, he’d noticed. Tired and agreeable, but never happy.

This, however, was a different situation. What had gone on? Were they unhappy because of something that would have negative repercussions on Mecca? Or were they unhappy about Nyacon in general, and that ship they’d talked about?

After a few more minutes of tossing and turning, John finally sat up. He didn’t reach for his crutches; he wouldn’t need them indoors. Besides, he didn’t like the looks people gave him when he used them. Like he was weak; like he was an easy target. It made him deeply uncomfortable. Staggering to his feet, he put on some thicker clothes and then descended the stairs below. In the common area of the sleeping quarters, two familiar faces were sipping steaming hot mugs of what smelled like tea. Katson and Gere, two of the people who had brought John back from Citadel.

Gere’s normally puffy blond hair was slicked back from dampness—rain or night vapor—and Katson had dark circles under her eyes, and bandages over her hands. They blinked at him when they spotted him.

“Doctor,” Katson greeted him reluctantly.

He sat himself down at the same table, noting the grim look to Gere’s eyes; he decided to get right down to business. “What happened out there?”

“The Nyacon ship was destroyed,” Gere muttered.

John couldn’t confess to being terribly surprised. He wondered how happy the ship’s destruction had made Obsidian. “Any survivors?”

“Couple,” Katson said quietly, nodding. “We brought one back who was wandering around mumbling to himself, he was in bad shape. The others—as far as we know—were killed by drones when they swam to shore. Easy pickings.”

“So how’d the one guy survive?”

“He won’t say.” Gere snorted. “Actually, he won’t say anything that isn’t directly related to ‘I’m gonna kick that thing’s ass if I see it again’.”

John frowned. “Thing?”

Katson shrugged. “He ran into an old buddy of yours… the drone commander.”

“Oh. And he’s still alive?”

“We’re just as shocked as you.”

Gere hesitated, then said, “He also said that he saw your friends.”

John, suddenly feeling very alert, stared at him. “And they’re alive? And well?”

“Well, he says good old 17 knocked him out, and he doesn’t remember what happened to them. He was quarreling with them at the time and 17 punched him from behind.”

He felt dread pool in his stomach. Great. Something else to worry about.

They were all quiet, the only sound being the gentle clinking of mugs on the table surface and the distant sounds of horses being locked into their protective stables. Then, Gere said, “So I heard you and Willard are looking for plagued plants.”

John blinked. “From who?”

“Willard,” he said shortly, adding, “Don’t let the guy get you down, he’s actually rather smart. He just… doesn’t like you.”

“Something I said?”

“More like something you did. You’re the brilliant doctor, remember? He’s intimidated.”

Not having examined it from that angle, John nodded slowly. “I see.”

Gere snickered. “And maybe he has a professional crush on your work. But, anyway, if you’re looking for plagued plants you might want to try Shadow Wood.”

“Tommy!” Katson said reproachfully. “That place is suicide!”

John looked between them. “Shadow Wood?”

“It’s where the cultists are supposed to be,” Gere admitted, looking slightly admonished, “but plenty of them have been plague-ridden when we occasionally find them. And the plants are all weird there—super tall and twisted and… it’s just kinda creepy in general. Hence the name.”

“Where is it?”

“Southeast of Citadel,” Katson sighed, “but don’t you dare think of going there, or the General will have your hide. He wants to…”

She trailed off, looking rather alarmed with herself, and then finished, “He wants to protect you as much as he can, and… it’ll be… hard there.”

It was awkward, it was a cover-up, and John felt his hackles rising. “I see.”

What don’t I know? Why won’t they show me my complete records?

“On the other hand,” Gere added brightly, clearly trying to work over her stumble, “We could go with you and provide cover, properly outfitted with protective suits. And then you’d be safe from the cultists getting at you again.”

Oh. Right. The last time I met one she wanted to kill me. That sounds like a great place for me to go. John sighed heavily. But who advanced science by staying in the borders of the previous practice?

“I don’t suppose you could talk to the General about this?”

“Why don’t you?” Katson suggested. “He likes you. We’ll back you up, if you want, but he should hear it from a source that he’s not annoyed with at the moment.” She threw Gere an irritated look. “Since some people can’t take a step without risking their lives.”

John didn’t ask. “Okay. Well, I’ll be seeing him in the morning at breakfast, so that’ll be a perfect time. I suppose I should get back to bed.”

“We should go to bed too,” Gere yawned, standing. “It’s been a long, exciting day.”

“One more thing,” he said lightly. “Where’s this Nyacon guy being held?”

Katson grimaced. “Right next to your friend White. I hope he’s more lucid in the morning.”

Gere looked at him, as he slowly got to his feet. “Hang on, Doctor, weren’t you on crutches the last time I saw you?”

John wasn’t counting on this. He hadn’t registered the two in a while, but maybe they’d been outside of his attention span. It was easy, what with all of the thinking he’d been doing lately. “Er…”

“I’ll help you back upstairs,” Gere offered, and John knew it would be silly to refuse, as the man didn’t look like he was going to back down.

“All right. Thanks.”

“No problem. You can count on us, you know.”

Can I really?

Randolph had known loneliness before. He had been raised by his grandfather after his parents had died in a car accident, and his grandfather had liked to go into town every night to be at the bar. He’d left Randolph to his own devices during that time, even at the young age of nine. But it had given him a sense of maturity, resourcefulness, and decision-making at an age where most children were still coddled like one-year-olds.

Most children weren’t all that mature, he supposed; perhaps he’d been a special case.

His new lot with Mecca, however, was a little worse than being left alone for a few hours.

The cell was pretty tiny, fifteen by fifteen feet, and was mostly dominated by its cot and by the very primitive toilet and sink that were installed awkwardly into the walls. There was no privacy of any kind with the other cells on either side, as there were only bars. And with Alice Daubi next door, well, that just made certain activities ten times more awkward. What with her constant staring and mumbling, which were starting to get on his nerves.

However, his restless sleep was interrupted by a lot of commotion on this particular night, and a cadre of soldiers marched into the cell area with a man between them that they practically had to drag. He was blond, somewhat lanky, with strong facial features and very callused hands; what was more, he was wearing a blue uniform that wasn’t Meccan in origin.

Randolph sat up, as the stranger was deposited in the cell next to his. None of the soldiers spared Randolph a second glance, just locked the other cell and trooped out, muttering to each other with shoulders slumped. He would have felt almost insulted—where was his reputation—if the stranger hadn’t immediately started talking.

“Okay, where the hell am I? Who the hell are you? Is this your guys’ version of the Marriot hotel or something? Do you two even speak?”

He had a rough voice, one that sounded like he’d been doing a lot of speaking.

“We speak. She speaks too much,” Randolph muttered, gesturing over at Alice, who was peering at the man with a fearful expression. “You’re in a Meccan jail cell. What’s your crime?”

“Hell if I know!” the stranger burst out. “I survived my ship exploding, then I swam ashore with my buddies who all ended up dead, then I ran up this sewer pipe into a weird cave and met some random chick and guy who were psycho, then a vine monster ate my remaining buddy and they left him to it, so I punched them… and then a robot knocked me out, and so when I woke up I ran—and those guys found me. And a dark-skinned woman who has more balls than I do.”

Randolph allowed himself a faint smile. Katson, no doubt.

“So who’re you?” the stranger persisted.

“I’m Randolph. Serial killer,” he explained cheerfully. The man would find out sooner or later. “That’s Alice, she’s a cultist.”

He stared at her, and she looked away from them, squeaking. “One of those Broken Circle nutcases?”

“That’s right,” he acknowledged. “What’s your name?”

“Christopher Malick. People just call me Chris, though.”

“Well, Chris… welcome to hell. I hope you’re not a private person, otherwise this gets awkward real quick,” Randolph said dryly.

Chris snorted. “I’m gonna get out of here by tomorrow. I’ll break you out, too, if you want. I need to get back to Nyacon.”

Randolph stared at him. “Will you take me with you? These people’re gonna kill me, I just know it.”

“…eh, sure. I never had much use for people anyway, so you being a killer is fine by me, just know that I’m off-limits.”

“Hey, no problem. I kicked the habit anyway.”

“Good,” Chris chuckled. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sleep, ‘cause those guys were dragging me for… a lot of hours.”

Randolph nodded. “Right.”

The man collapsed onto his cot and, from the sound of his breathing, fell asleep almost instantly. Alice and Randolph exchanged a glance—fear on one side and irritation on the other—before they settled down to sleep as well.

They had nothing better to do. And maybe tomorrow was going to be pretty good, if Chris did as he said.

All he knew was pain. Amputation, and reattachment, and amputation, and his circuitry was so fried on the edges that he could almost taste smoke, even without the proper mechanisms for taste. 17 knew that his legs had been severed, and that a lot had been ripped out of his core, but beyond that the world was a fuzzy-staticky haze. His tormentors were unintelligent drones that did as programmed, and they did their task dispassionately with professional precision.

Several times he wanted to scream, wanted to let out some kind of reaction, wanted this to just end even if that meant him going offline for good—but he couldn’t. Obsidian had ripped out the circuitry in charge of free will. All he could want was what he was getting, and so occasionally the drones stopped and asked what he wanted them to do.

All he could say was, “Continue,” because that’s what Obsidian wanted of him.

And so they started to sever and reattach again, and use blades and flame and data hacking techniques, and his core processor was awash in all of the damage reports coming in from every corner of his being.

He supposed he had a being, anyway. Right now he wasn’t too sure whether he was experiencing a programmed training event or if this was reality.

It was a full ten hours before the drones finally stopped.

“Continue, continue,” he half-whimpered, the response built-in and automatic. From somewhere in his processor he heard Obsidian’s mocking, sneering laughter. The drones didn’t continue, though; in fact, he was picked up and cradled against the larger one, as they left the disassembly room and traveled down the labyrinth of steel corridors lit by white banks of glass.

17 didn’t care where he was going, where they were going to drop him next. All he knew was that he was leaving the room that was meant for the torture and death of his kind.

Eventually they stopped in front of a small door, and it slid open to admit them, but by then his vision was so blurry that the door looked like just another segment of wall. The room inside was completely dark, and it…

It smelled like…

“Well, well,” came the familiar, quiet mutter. The lights turned back on.

The drones attached him to the wall, to hooks that caught his wiring and held him in place securely but painfully, and then they hovered back out, amid his fresh sparks and whimpers from the further bad treatment.

“You look pretty bad.”

“Human,” he rasped, “you have no idea.”

“No, I think I have some,” Dagny Rabe muttered at him, her eyes narrowed. “Looks like they worked you over like regular pros. What’d you do? Say she looked fat?”

Without his free will, and even though he’d just been put through hell, 17 was offended. “I was prideful and it cost me.”

“So that other guy is out there right now.”

“16. Yes.”

“I ran into him once. He was smarmy.”

“16 imitates the behavior of those he meets, before his consciousness is erased for the night,” 17 replied. “You were being smarmy at him and he copied.”

Dagny snorted. “God. You’re basically a junkyard mess and you’re defending them all like any creature deserves to be living in your condition.”

“As I said before, I was prideful.”

“So? A little pride, just a little, is good for you.”

“Says you, human.”

“Yeah,” she said, a bit roughly, “says me. Now quit talking, your vocal processor is hurting my ears when it sparks like that.”

17, still offended, almost didn’t do as she said, but then he realized he felt better when he wasn’t communicating.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would talk her ears off.