Shatter City by Scott Westerfeld

Author:Scott Westerfeld
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2019-09-23T16:00:00+00:00

A few minutes later, a noise reaches us, echoing out of an abandoned ancient square—the unmistakable rattle of a recycler. Essa peers around the corner and makes a fist, the local hand sign for a Shreve hole in the wall.

They’re everywhere now. Two dozen fell that first night, beating the other cities by precious hours. Another hundred have arrived since. They’re efficient at turning rubble into useful gear—but Essa and I are certain that’s not all they do.

That’s why we hunt them.

I take a quick look around the corner. The fabricator stands in the middle of the square, its huge maw grazing on rubble—no RFS wardens keeping watch. But it has scanners mounted all over it, to grab the identities of vandals like us.

We wear reflective face masks so millimeter-wave can’t map our teeth. AI can recognize people by the way they walk, so we each pump one shoe tighter to throw off our gaits. We pull on gloves, for DNA and fingerprints.

My pulse knife has just enough charge to get this done. And around my heart is a cloud of hornets. There’s wildfire in my veins.

Fighting is one thing I don’t need feels for.

“Ready?”

Essa nods.

We round the corner and head straight for the fabricator, walking fast across the broken cobblestones.

Right away, scanners bristle along its back.

Fabricators aren’t allowed to mount weapons—they usually try to run. But this one turns toward us, and I can see now that its six legs aren’t as stubby as a normal Shreve fab. It’s leaner than usual, designed to move fast.

It’s backing up, like it’s about to charge.

I squeeze my knife to half pulse. A well-thrown strike will take out the machine’s brain, and I can plunder its batteries to recharge. But the fabricator rears up, putting its belly full of rubble between me and the brain case on its back.

Delaying tactics—it’s called for backup, of course.

As Essa and I split up, trying to outflank it, the sound echoing through the square changes. The rattle of breaking rubble shifts to the burr of fabrication.

It’s making something.

Before I can get an angle to throw my knife, its maw opens wide …

A fluttering swarm comes spilling out. Tiny drones, like the butterflies the extraction team tried to dart me with.

“Careful!” I call to Essa. “They sting!”

My pulse knife roars to life. I fling it at the swarm.

It cuts a few of the drones into glitter—the rest scatter. They roil in the air for a moment, splitting into two swarms to come at both of us.

Essa pulls off her coat and whips it through the air, like fending off bees with a blanket. I call the knife back into my hand and flail.

The drones dart and weave, trying to get past my blade. It’s like fencing with a dozen opponents, where any pinprick will knock me out.

Forced back across broken cobblestones, I stumble, almost going down. A drone flits past my guard. I jerk my head back, the stinger barely missing my cheek.

I slash it into fragments, but sooner or later one will hit.

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