“Most of your victims are already dead.”

  “No. No, they’re part of me. They’ll be immortal with me. We will live forever.”

  When the host tried to push himself up, he slid back down to the floor. A series of convulsions ran through his body. His chest rose and fell in a series of moist gasps. He tried a few times to reach for something that wasn’t there. Miles took his hand, metal fingers meshing with metal fingers.

  “I can’t die,” the host whispered.

  Miles hated to contradict him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  iles left the host where he lay and checked on the marshal.

  Barma had multiple cuts on his face, and the fingers on his M

  left hand were mangled. Bone showed from one of the joints.

  Whatever surgery had done to get him ready for hibernation didn’t include the hand, and the marshal wouldn’t let Miles touch it.

  The marshal’s voice was thick with phlegm. “Never mind that.

  How bad’s my face?”

  “You’ll give me a run for my money. But you’ll heal.”

  “And what about him? The host?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “If you find any pain meds, set me up. Whatever he gave me is fading.”

  The bots in the closet kept tapping, but Miles felt a growing confidence that the tiny drones didn’t have the strength or guile to figure out how to escape. Miles made a more thorough search of the operating room and its storage cabinets. Discovered it was well-stocked and organized with even more packaged supplies. All of it appeared new, as if a shipment from a Meridian hospital had been dropped off and signed for.

  With Insight’s help, he selected a self-contained dose of painkiller and administered it to the marshal. The man nodded his thanks, leaned back against his makeshift pillow, and closed his eyes.

  “You want one for your arm?” Miles asked Dawn.

  She had been crouching next to the host’s tank for several minutes, working at his keypad. “I’ll be fine. Looks like I’ve got radio.

  At least as long as the battery power works.”

  “How about shutting down his network and his killer robots?”

  “That’s encrypted. But the communications aren’t. I’ve got a message looping for anyone who might hear us.”

  “What’s the range?”

  She scrolled down on the touchscreen. “Can’t tell. Might not be anything, which means we’re stuck.”

  “Keep trying,” he said. “Keep listening.”

  “Like there’s anything else to do. Is that vault door going to hold?”

  “Not if more heavy machinery shows up,” he said. “It’s only metal, and some of those mining bots have plasma cutters.”

  “Your Insight module tell you that, Miles?”

  “There’s a reason I shut it up as often as I do.”

  Miles went to check on the engineer. The man had passed out as he leaned on his open coffin, his breathing shallow. While the vault felt like it had air, with the power out, Miles couldn’t help but worry that the ventilation system might also shut down. He decided not to ask Insight how long they could survive on the oxygen contained within the enclosed space.

  Then a thought crossed his mind. “What about the delivery dog?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s not part of the mining network, is it?”

  “No, they typically are on open bandwidths so they can be located and given directions in case of problems. The ones in Seraph are all part of a business co-op which funds them, since everyone uses them.”

  “So we can send a message using it.”

  “Assuming it didn’t get destroyed by that mining bot which was chasing us.”

  “Do you have its frequency? Can you call it? Because if the host used it...”

  She didn’t wait to answer as she searched the screen. “Got it. It’s here. Sending it to Seraph will take about eight hours, according to the delivery estimate. We won’t last that long.”

  “Look for a history log of charge nodes. There are other communities out in the desert. The host might have bought or traded for some of the stuff down here from someplace nearby. If he wasn’t robbing trains, he has to have some means of working with suppliers. And if not him, then the miners did. Why else would he keep using the dogs, if not for convenience?”

  “There’s one close by. A camp called The Gift Which was the Clean Spring.”

  “Somebody’s going to have to explain these place names to me.

  Can you send the camp a message and get the dog to deliver it?”

  “Simple enough.” She started typing.

  While Miles was curious what kind of call for help she was composing, he didn’t want to delay what might be their last shred of hope in seeing daylight again.

  She leaned back from the screen. “There. It’s off. Now we wait to see if anyone wants to save us.”

  “You don’t sound hopeful.”

  “People come to the desert to mind their own business. And with gangs like the Metal Heads roaming around, why would anyone bother to respond? The nearest train substations could be the only ones who might hear us. But they’re—”

  She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to.

  The bleak land beyond Meridian was as cold as the place which had spawned it. But then he thought of Dillan, who had known the names of just about everyone in their twenty-unit housing block, had fetched groceries for old Mrs. Moore for three years before her death, would spend an hour trying to track down the owner of a dropped wallet without an ID, and helped out on the hottest afternoons in the community garden even before he learned to like vegetables. Folks like Dillan had come to Seraph and the desert.

  Miles could only hope others had, too.

  He checked on the closet and confirmed none of the bots were getting out, as a sudden silence told him they had stopped beating themselves against the door. But something big was moving outside the vault. The vibrations began in the floor, but soon shook the walls and ceiling above. Heavy machinery was inbound, but at least they’d have to clear the dead bot first.

  Dawn appeared lost in thought and wouldn’t make eye contact as Miles paced. The marshal shivered. Miles found his discarded torn jacket and added it to the sheets covering the marshal. Then he checked the touch screen on the host’s stasis tube. The message programs were running, but a red flashing bar indicated a request to connect the network to power.

  Once the power was out, the message for help would stop. They had enough emergency lights, at least. There were no other doors, and even if they could get into the closet, it would make for a poor last stand.

  He nudged Dawn. “You should get into the tube. The bots will miss you when they break in.”

  She shook her head. “Claustrophobic.”

  “I’m serious. Those machines aren’t going to play nice.”

  “And I’m serious too. My palms started sweating just thinking about it. If this is it, then this is it. We did our job.”

  “Did we?” he asked.

  “The host was clearly delusional. And now he’s out of the picture.

  I believe the people on the train get to see the sun rise. If it’s any consolation, Herron-Cauley has some deep pockets.”

  Miles had his doubts, but he kept them to himself. Too many what-ifs about what the bots in the desert and the gang might be up to.

  A shuddering squeal of metal-on-metal cut through the vault.

  Miles got up and got under one of the marshal’s arms. “Help me with him.”

  The marshal murmured a protest as they brought him to the host’s tank and got him reclined.

  “We close it up just enough. The bots miss him. At least one of us tells the story of what happened.”

  But the marshal swung a leg out of the tank and began pushing himself upright. Miles tried to stop him when a hard clang reverberated from the vault door. Then silence. Then the lights flickered, and the tank’s screen went dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ours passed, and no more noises came from outside the vault.

  The emergency light was their sole source of illumination.

  H

  Except for the marshal’s labored breathing and the occasional liquid murmur from the powered-down tanks, the silence was complete and stifling.

  The marshal sat leaning against the host’s coffin with Miles’

  jacket wrapped around him. His face was sullen. Any time Miles tried to ask how he was doing, the marshal waved him off with his uninjured hand.

  Dawn kept worrying the fringe of her dress while chewing her lip.

  She sat across from the marshal and appeared lost in thought. She had spent about thirty minutes tinkering with the dead tank control panel and had gotten into the master terminal’s guts, only to give up.

  Disconnected memory chips and other computer peripherals were stacked in a small pile.

  “Find anything useful?” Miles asked.

  “Just junk. Some of this is old, old, old, and it’s locked me out.”

  Miles put an ear to the vault door. Whatever machines had been making a racket were now quiet. Were they waiting for orders, or pausing before their final assault? Miles knew he was being irrational, but grew concerned that even the sound of his breathing might trigger their attack, as if the machines were savvy hunters only looking for a confirmation their prey was still there.

  No, he reminded himself, they were drones following orders. And with the host dead, they were on autopilot. He considered the handle to the door. They’d have to check outside eventually if no one came, if even just to let in more air. He decided he’d go, but for the moment he’d wait.

  He paced some more and considered the engineer. The man now lay on the metal surgical table, which was still set against the closet door. He had grown catatonic and unresponsive. His heart?

  Some drug the host had given him? Insight was no help in what to

  do. Without competent medical attention, the man would die. It was a minor miracle the marshal had recovered so well.

  The host had promised immortality, but his coffins didn’t work, and there were three more men still alive inside them who might be suffocating.

  He started to open the T-bolts on one of the coffins. Dawn joined him and helped and together they opened the tank, working quickly and ignoring the liquid draining around their feet. The man inside was unconscious but breathing. They dragged him to a space on the floor of the operating room. Dawn found a bundle of vacuum-packed towels and dried him off. Tremors ran through his body. They got the next two out. They were in no better shape.

  “They all need a hospital,” she said.

  Miles wiped his hands on a towel. “Watch them. Keep them warm. I’ll try to get to the surface. Lock the door behind me.”

  “If you don’t come back, I’ll have to come looking.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was joking. “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

  There was nothing left to say as he eased the latch open and cracked the vault door. The large bot they had disabled was now parked to one side of the widest section of corridor. A second machine of similar build stood next to it. It had a red eye which stared at them. But the drone didn’t move as he stuck his head out and scanned the blacked-out cul-de-sac. It was empty.

  Dawn handed him a large glowstick from a first aid locker. The feeble green light barely cut the gloom. He was an easy target for any lurking drones out there waiting for him.

  Miles took a tentative step towards the new bot. It actually looked new, with yellow plastic panels with nary a scratch. He waved the stick in front of the eye. Touched the cool surface, and one of its limbs planted firmly onto the floor. As he rounded the machine, he saw he’d need tools to get to the power plant to disable it, and Insight reminded him of this particular model’s theft deterrence that might be activated if he pressed his luck.

  He gave Dawn a wave. She pushed the door closed and, with a final click of the latch, he was alone. His breathing sounded like bellows as he walked up the slope of the shaft.

  Lights were coming his way.

  The smooth corridor had no place to hide. His laser made a poor hand weapon, and all the bots had to do was keep their distance and burn him down. But then came voices. Three, no, four. Men. Women.

  If they were Metal Heads coming to save their master, he could only hope they wouldn’t recognize him.

  Bright white beams cut into the gloom and would find him in moments.

  He put the burner away and called out, “Hello up there.”

  The voices stopped talking. Several shadows wearing headlamps. A flashlight caught him in the face.

  “Who are you?” a woman asked.

  “I sent the S.O.S.”

  They whispered among themselves.

  After a moment, the woman stepped closer. “This your mine?”

  “If you get that light out of my face, we can talk—”

  “Hands where I can see them.”

  A young man with straw-colored hair and an earpiece came forward and patted him down. Found the burner. Took his glowstick.

  “Where’s the rest of your gang?” the woman asked.

  “I’m not a Metal Head. I’m a passenger on the Seraph Express.

  The train was ambushed and robbed.”

  “And what are you doing down here?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ve got people who need medical attention. Do you have a radio?”

  TWO OF THE STRANGERS escorted him out of the mine and up the ladder. At the top of the fake well, they were met with more people, all in work clothes and all armed. The woman and one of her group hadn’t come with them. Every time Miles protested to get them to return to the vault, he got a shove and finally a threat.

  “So much as twitch that trick arm of yours, you’ll be sorry,” the blond man said.

  He was left to ponder if his treatment was because of the Metal Head’s reputation or if they had reason to fear cyborgs in general.

  But he kept quiet and could only hope these rescuers were there to help. Three desert runners were parked around the well. The shed had been demolished but still stood on one upright wall. The delivery dog was gone.

  Now that they were out of the mine, a blue glow on the horizon signaled the coming of dawn. Several lanterns illuminated the faces of the rescuers. Hard, sun-beaten, lean. They were picking through the camp and packing tools and stripped machine parts into the trailer of one of the runners.

  Scavengers or opportunists, he decided.

  “Take what you want,” Miles said. “No one alive down there is going to argue. I think the mine operators are all dead.”

  The blond man licked his teeth. “Tried robbing them and tripped on their security, did you?”

  “Not a robber. We have a Seraph marshal with us. I’m asking you to call anyone with Herron-Cauley and let them know what happened with the train. Call Seraph too. I’m sure you’ll get a reward.”

  “Doubt it. Just stay put until Eleanor comes back up.”

  The blond man busied himself with a tablet without touching the screen. Miles recognized a wireless interface when he saw one.

  While the man had no visible enhancements, he was a cyborg, which meant the scavengers didn’t belong to any of the Luddite cliques. And in the blond’s case, the tech was invisible and probably expensive.

  One man had climbed a ladder propped up against a leaning antenna tower, which Miles had missed. He was cutting a wire with a pair of pliers. If that was how their SOS got out, their message was now interrupted. A second scavenger lingered nearby, a carbine cradled in his arms.

  “Can I get some water?” Miles asked.

  The blond blinked hard, and the screen went dark. “Once we have all of you together, we’ll care for your every need.”

  Carbine man’s eyes were shifting between Miles and the blond.

  He was rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Nerves. Miles knew

  the look. While the man might have been strung out, Miles understood that untrained people about to do violence got shaky. It did something to their voice, their eyes. They lost their composure and the ability to keep their hands steady. Even trained soldiers experienced it. There was little an enhancement could do to completely override the natural dumping of adrenaline into the bloodstream. It was the primal brain entering fight or flight, and these boys didn’t look like they were about to run.

  “Is that your boss down the ladder?” Miles asked. “Eleanor? If you have a comm line to her, I’d love to chat.”

  The blond tucked the tablet away. “Time for that later.”

  “I think this is the perfect time. She’s sitting on a treasure chest of tech here. We have no claim to it. You let us walk, we leave.”

  “Just shut up.”

  “Sure. Fine. But it’s going to get complicated for you and yours real soon. We put our message out to everyone in Seraph, and not just over the radio. That means more marshals, maybe the militia, and whatever posse they collect.”

  “We’ll be out of here in no time.”

  Miles kept his voice calm, de-escalation 101. “Good. Leave. No one here is interested in stopping you from whatever it is you’re into.

  And you don’t want a heap of trouble following you from here. That means letting us go.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  But the blond nodded at the carbine man.

  A rock near Miles’ feet was his only weapon. He went for it.

  Threw. The carbine man blurted something as he deflected the stone with his firearm. But the blond was quick, drawing, aiming, firing.

  Miles dove and tumbled and felt a hot sting graze his thigh. He hit the ground near the mouth of the well, then elbow-crawled away.

  The blond stepped over a pile of debris and came for him.

  With no cover, Miles rolled onto his back and showed his palms.

  The blond raised his weapon.

  A brilliant spotlight turned the early morning gloom into day. A buzzing drone hovered over them. From up the canyon came the

 

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