Maybe less of an explosion and more of a violent splitting, or crumbling. But the effect is the same.
Bits of concrete debris careen through the air. Some are small, the size of a thumb or hand, clustered like shotgun pellets.
I bring up an arm, deflecting a dozen concrete projectiles away from my face. Others rattle harmlessly against my torso and legs.
It's the bigger chunks I'm worried about. Most of them land several yards off and slide to a stop. But the largest, the size of a four-door sedan, seems to have a lot of momentum behind it. It rolls, spins, and bounces, heading directly toward us.
There's no time to react. And yet, Frosty the Robogirl does, throwing herself to the floor. The massive block flips at just the precise moment, passing over and past her, only managing to just barely touch a few locks of her still-falling hair.
I dive to the side, catching myself on one knee. There's an incredible whoosh in my left ear as it passes, crashing into several shelves and orchestrating a cacophony that will likely continue for several seconds, as a hundred objects crash and collide, clattering on the floor.
I rise to my feet.
Robogirl pushes herself up upright with her arms, flipping her hair out of her face so she can look over at the shattered section of the wall.
It happens so fast. But the moment is stretched out. Slowed down. A scene played frame by agonizing frame.
Little pieces of detritus fall, landing and dancing across the floor, like hail on a back lawn.
There’s a thick, chalky cloud suffusing the room. Not enough to obscure the source of the commotion, but enough that I have to squint, and even wonder, briefly and distantly, if what I’m seeing isn’t just some trick of the light.
Some different parallels come to mind. I think of certain quadruped mechs in Metal Gear; the ones from Peace Walker. I think of the Destroyer Droids in the Star Wars prequels. But even more than that, I think of that robot in The Incredibles, the one they have to fight at the end of the movie. It's eerily similar, with its round, ball-like body, and four retractable legs. Right now the massive legs are extended and taut, holding the orb-like hull up in the air, so high it appears to be partially stuck in the ceiling. Caught, somehow.
The girl's up and running. She grabs my hand, pulling me, torquing my body sideways. I run to keep up with her, but I keep the robot in the corner of my eye. Not sure I could stop looking at it if I tried.
There are two horizontal slits through the hull, splitting it into thirds, with one big section in the middle, and two outer sections, which can rotate independently. As the girl and I run, the bottom part of the hull—that part which isn't stuck—turns, and a panel underneath opens up. A twin-barreled turret emerges. Each barrel flashes intermittently as gunfire sunders the air in a deafening barrage. Bullets pass by us, sounding like sped-up hummingbirds. Shards of concrete rubble jump up like sentient things from the floor.
The girl is looking back at me, yelling something I can’t make out. There’s so much noise, visual and audio both.
Suddenly she digs in her heels. I veer to one side so I don’t slam into her.
She reaches out, grabs the rifle looped over my shoulder by the strap, pulling the strap through and off my arm.
She aims at the robotic intruder and starts firing. It’s automatic, and the recoil looks pretty intense, but she’s handling it alright. Bright muzzle flashes light up her hair and face. She’s hitting the hull and legs, generating sparks as metal collides with metal. She’s aiming for the turret, trying to disable it.
The automech—as I’ve begun to think of it—doesn’t seem to like that. It retracts the turret, protectively. Then it retracts all its legs, which go shooting back up into the hull and disappear. For a split second it hangs there, still caught in the ceiling, unsupported. Then, there’s a loud snap, and it falls free. Cracks split outward as it impacts the floor. It rolls toward us.
Once again I’m yanked backward, held tight at the wrist.
“You drive!” She yells back at me, pointing to one of the motorcycles. “I’ll shoot.”
I open my mouth to object. And trust me, there are plenty of objections to make.
First of all, I’ve never driven a motorcycle—what my dad calls a “death trap on wheels”—in my life. Secondly, this flimsy little crotch-rocket—another negative term my father’s used before—is supposed to hold up against the Hamster Wheel of Death? Thirdly-
She comes to a stop in front of the bike, about-faces, and fires in the direction of the giant, rolling steel ball. “What are you waiting for!?”
Any argument I have now is going to be cut short by the equivalent of a ten-ton pancake roller.
I hop onto the bike. Up close, it’s larger than I expected, but not by much. The seat is long. The tires are about as wide as the whole width of my hand, from my thumb to the tip of my pinky. There’s two big exhaust pipe things, one on each side, jutting out and pointing back. The main bulk of it has a sleek, glossy finish, painted a dark brown, walnut color. The whole thing looks like it’s just come off an assembly line.
There’s a red button on the right side of the handlebar. I press it with my thumb, and the engine rumbles to life, thrumming underneath me. Then, the whole thing jolts, as Frosty lands on the seat behind me. One of her arms loops around my waist as she holds tight to me. Her other arm holds the rifle, still firing, making intrepid, echoing cracks inside the hangar space. Behind that sound, following it, is the grinding roll of the automech, a cadence increasing in velocity with every passing sliver of a second as it gains momentum and speed.
I lean forward, gripping the handlebars. I gun the throttle.
The engine screams. The bike jerks forward. Too slow at first, it seems. Until all at once, it’s as if the hand of God himself has reached down to push behind it, jettisoning us forward. The two exhausts—or thrusters, maybe—shriek and roar. They give off an intense, uncomfortable amount of heat, like twin fireballs on the sides of the bike.
I give it a quick glance. There’s definitely flame shooting out of those things. It flares low to the ground, and outward, though Frosty does have her shins tucked up out of the way of the blast zone just in case, holding tight to the bike with her thighs.
I turn my gaze ahead. It occurs to me I have no idea where I'm going. Except, if I'm not careful, directly into a cement wall.
"Uh..."
"There," Frosty yells into my ear, pointing with the barrel of the rifle toward the far corner of the hangar.
It's the entrance to some corridor or shaft. The walls are the same color and material as inside the hanger, and there are no signs or markers denoting it, so I hadn't noticed it before. But I see it now.
I veer, turning, lining up the bike so I can enter the tunnel at a somewhat straight angle. It's fairly narrow, with only enough space for one, maybe two cars to drive through side by side. That may seem like a lot of wiggle room, but at the rate this puppy is moving, one mistake could send us straight into the wall, and that's definitely on my mind.
That said, I'm having an easier time than I expected with the bike. It's come quite naturally, actually. As I'm coming up against the far wall of the hanger, turning into the corner, I even have an intuitive sense to tilt the bike a little to one side to make the angle. Not that it isn't scary, moving this fast and seeing the floor tilt, rising up toward one side of my face, before easing back down again to where it's supposed to be.
Just at the moment when the bike is fully upright again, we slip into the tunnel. Air whooshes loud to either side of me in the channel, almost louder than the engine itself. As soon as we're in, I feel a vague lifting sensation, and I realize there's a slight, almost imperceptible upward trajectory, like a subtle ramp.
We're heading upward. Where exactly, I don't know. I can't see the end. It's a long, grey passage, stretching off into infinity. Intermittent lights in the middle of the ceiling zip past overhead, like space-faring vessels going in and out of hyperspeed.
This is a liminal place. A space between spaces. Reminds me of that Youtube video of the eerily long hallway at the MGM Grand. Just a long tail of lights, going on and on into the distance. Though it's a straight shot, it feels like a descent. Like you're falling into something, being swallowed up.
"Look alive," Frosty says next to my ear. Her voice is choppy from the enclosed space and the fast-moving lights above them, like she’s talking into a fan.
I check the side mirror. The Automech is still on our tail. In fact, it’s actually gaining. The separating lines on the hill are vertical now. The middle section is a rolling blur. The sides are stationary, each with its own set of thrusters emitting a bar of blue flame, like big blowtorches.
It’s really moving. And we have nowhere to go to avoid it. Except forward.
Fortunately, as the angle of the tunnel shifts further upward, the thing's thrusters don't have quite what it takes to maintain the giant metal ball's momentum as it travels up the shaft. It's getting smaller in the side mirror. Slowing down. Or at least, it's not able to maintain the bike's level of acceleration.
I wonder why it hasn't whipped any more weapons out of its arsenal—it surely must have more. But then, maybe it's being careful not to collapse the tunnel. Maybe everything it has left is too volatile. Maybe it's out of options. Maybe we're safe.
I've spoken too soon.
Some things start breaking off of the mech. Bits and chunks of it. Is it falling apart? Is it dissembling parts of itself for some extra speed?
At first, the fallen chunks disappear from sight behind the mech. Until they don't. Because now they're zipping up, past the larger mech, and back into view. Little, two-wheeled, motorcycle-looking things. There's two or three of them now, and more continuing to drop away from the big ball.
Simultaneously, little turrets pop up on top of the currently operating baby-cycles. They start firing. Automatic rounds. The recoil makes them shake like little, nervous chihuahuas. It would be more amusing if I wasn't about to die because of it.
I swerve, head down. Bullet trails pock the floor and walls ahead. Behind me, Frosty returns fire. There's a spark from one of the bikes before it flips over and explodes, spewing fire and smoke. Other bikes veer around the wreckage, and the big ball simply crunches over it. Frosty keeps firing. Another one of the little bikes goes down. And another.
Then there's a lull in her covering fire. There's a tug behind me as she zips open the backpack, looking for a new mag.
"Why didn't you tell me you had these!?" She yells into my ear.
Is she talking about the grenades?
"Are those safe-" I start, over my shoulder.
But she's already chucked one of the orbs.
A blue light blinks on its surface as it hits the floor and bounces. It detonates in the midst of the baby-cycles, sending them skidding, flipping, slamming into either wall.
It's just us and the ball mech now. It's never looked more like a Destroyer Droid, no longer so weighty and solid as it used to be. There are vast gaps in its composition. It's shed most of its resources and reserves in the form of the little bikes, which carried fuel and ammunition it can no longer use. On the other hand, it's faster now, having lost so much of its mass. Not only is it keeping pace, it's actually crept closer. Bullets glance off it as Frosty starts emptying a new mag, hunting for some kind of a weak point to bring it down.
My vision continually shifts between what's ahead and what's in the mirror, wary of some new development, some new weapon I'll have to dodge.
Then I see it. Ahead. The end of the passage is coming up. And it's shut. There's a door blocking the way. It's a little square in the distance, but it's swiftly growing in size and definition.
"We got a problem," I yell back.
My passenger stops firing to peer over my shoulder. "Shit! I didn't realize we were coming up on it so soon."
"Yeah, well..."
I can feel her fumbling around in my backpack, looking for another grenade to throw.
Something moves in the side mirror. A slot opening up at the front of the big ball. Then something emerges from the slot. Half of what looks like some kind of missile.
"Uhhhhh," I say, looking back.
Frosty sees the look on my face. Her eyes go wide. She turns.
The missile shoots from the slot, heading directly for us, a trail of smoke in its wake.
It's right on us. There's no time to move. No time to do anything.
"Blast!" Frosty yells, and a bunch of other things I don't hear, garbled by the roar of the missile and everything else.
I shift my weight, tilting the bike, just as the rocket is about to make contact.
ns 15.158.61.5da2
