Machine State by Brad C Scott

Author:Brad C Scott [Scott, Brad C]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781734627206
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2020-03-22T22:00:00+00:00

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The app on my holobracer tied to Patton’s transponder says he’s stationary, parked or crashed outside the loading dock entrance. Something or someone must have drawn him in before he went dark. Krayge, most likely.

Has to be a trap, and here I am, walking right into it.

When we reach the door leading to the receiving area, the administrators that should be manning its security checkpoint are absent. Pulling my pistol, I motion Evans to fall in behind me and push through the door.

No contacts as we pivot in and move left behind a row of shelves stacked with pallets and shipping crates. Pistols out, we stalk down the row toward the four glowing rectangles of the roll-up openings leading to the outside. A dock office on the chamber’s far side sits empty. In fact, no one is about, curious considering how busy this place should be at this time of day. Glancing at the cameras mounted high on the walls confirms their indicator lights are dark.

So: this is the place.

“Redeemer,” breathes Evans.

There he is, a winged shape parked on the graded pavement about fifteen meters beyond the dock openings, late-morning light glowing silver off his skin. Patton’s sensory lenses and running lights are dark, though no battle damage is evident. Three men gather around him, two standing watch with ATAC rifles while a third crouches down at his side.

Reaching the row’s end and the last of our cover, I gesture to Evans and glide forward, hugging the chamber’s left-hand side where the light is dimmer. The men surrounding Patton – all wearing combat armor and tactical vests, faces concealed by black balaclavas – don’t detect our approach. But when I lean out from a roll-up door opening, one looks right at me.

“DRR!” I shout, extending my pistol. “Drop your weapons, or you will be fired on!”

“Do it!” shouts Evans. “Stand down now!”

The two operators with ATAC rifles stare at us, unmoving, sizing us up. The one crouched next to Patton stands up and turns toward us.

“Do it now!” I shout.

“Weapons down,” says the leader, stepping forward with his hands splayed to the sides and stopping in shadow ten meters out on the dock ramp, on a level with me where I stand in the roll-up door opening. The two guards lower their muzzles to point at the ground, though neither relinquishes his weapon.

“Drop the weapons, on the ground!” I shout.

“Malcolm Adams,” says the leader, voice the deep-throated rumble of a gathering storm, “it’s good to finally meet you.” He’s tall, this one, and well-built, though all I can make out of his features are the eyes, like polished marble or gray rime, lambent with predation. And the voice, somehow, it seems familiar.

“Who are you?” I say, pistol steady on his torso.

“We’ve never met,” he says, “though our paths nearly crossed in Los Angeles. I see your injuries have healed up.”

The pieces connect: Red Line Station, the ambush, the fuckers behind it. I sight in on his head, put pressure on the trigger.

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