Terminator Salvation: Cold War

CHAPTER NINE

2003

The bodies of the scouting party had been left where they fell. The arctic chill had retarded decomposition, but insects and bacteria had already left their mark on the dead submariners. Maggots swarmed in the eye sockets. Pale flesh had begun to blacken. Marbled veins stood out beneath peeling skin. Rigor mortis had passed, leaving the bodies limp and rubbery.

Bullets riddled the scattered corpses, which lay amidst pools of congealed blood. Lieutenant Zamyatin’s face had indeed been blasted apart; Losenko could identify him only by the insignia on his uniform. Pagodin’s lifeless fingers still clutched the blood-splattered walkie-talkie.

The massacre had taken place on a lonely stretch of road running through a deserted industrial area. The two-lane highway was flanked by a private storage facility on the right and an empty service station on the left. Discarded vehicles had been shoved into ditches alongside the road, perhaps to clear a path to the factory over the hill. Mummified skeletons slumped over the wheels of some of the cars. Most of the storage units looked as though they had been broken into by looters, although a few still had their corrugated steel doors intact.

The storage sheds and service station provided plenty of cover for hidden snipers; the location struck Losenko as the perfect site for an ambush. Fourteen of his men had learned that firsthand.

Evidence of the slaughter was everywhere. The overturned pickup lay on its side, blown apart by an explosion. Twisted metal fragments were strewn like shrapnel. Shell casings littered the asphalt. Bullet holes perforated the dented cars lining the road. Stray shots had chipped away at street signs, telephone poles, and concrete traffic dividers.

Losenko pried a loose slug out of the pavement; it appeared to be made of depleted uranium. One did not have to be a detective to realize that the scene had born witness to a furious firefight.

The only thing that was missing was the enemy. If Zamyatin and his men had managed to take any of their killers with them, those bodies had been carried away. Unlike the rotting corpses of his men.

“Who did this, Captain?” Ostrovosky asked. The junior radio operator had volunteered to join the patrol; Losenko suspected that he wanted revenge for the atrocity they had been forced to listen to yesterday. “Scavengers?”

He doubted it. Nothing appeared to have been stolen—not even the search party’s arms and ammunition—and the attackers had chosen to destroy the pickup truck rather than capture it. The captain also liked to think that trained Russian seamen could hold their own against any ragtag band of marauders, unless they were severely outnumbered. From what they had heard over the radio, however, the scouting team had not stood a chance. It had not been a battle, but a rout.

“Just keep your eyes open, Mr. Ostrovosky,” he said crisply. “For all we know, we’re behind enemy lines now.”

Over his first officer’s protests, Losenko had chosen to personally investigate the massacre. It was foolhardy, perhaps, given his rank and responsibilities, but what was Ivanov going to do about it, report back to his superiors? Losenko chuckled wryly. One of the few perks of surviving a thermonuclear war was that he no longer had to answer to Moscow.

Zamyatin and the others had died carrying out his orders. If I want to find out what happened, and see it with my own eyes, the captain thought, then that’s my prerogative.

Or maybe he just had a death wish.

Chances were, he wasn’t the only one.

Bloody tread marks crisscrossed the asphalt. Losenko remembered the motorized tumult he had overheard. The parallel tracks were roughly 150 centimeters apart, too close together for a tank or an automobile. Grease marks stained the blacktop. Pools of oily fluid collected in cracks and potholes. Losenko knelt to inspect such a puddle. He dipped a gloved finger into the liquid and held it to his nose.

It reeked of petroleum. Some sort of lubricant?

Machines, Pagodin had said. A squad of machines.

He peered intently at the liquid that dripped from his fingertip. Had his men drawn blood from the enemy before they were slaughtered?

Losenko wanted to think so.

He stood up and assessed the patrol. He had brought a larger force this time, fully twenty-five men, all armed to the teeth with assault rifles, handguns, and plenty of ammunition. They had crept upon the scene stealthily, having left their salvaged vehicles in a junkyard half a kilometer back. The cars and trucks were hidden in plain sight, like Poe’s famous purloined letter, amidst the numerous scrapped autos.

Losenko himself had ridden in a battered family station wagon that was missing all its windows. He had been disturbed to find a forgotten doll and candy wrappers under the passenger seat. He didn’t want to think about what might have become of the wagon’s former owners.

Perhaps he had trodden on their bones.

A pair of sentries had stayed behind to watch over the cars—and each other—while the rest of the party had continued forward on foot. Losenko’s legs ached from the strenuous hike. Quite a workout after being cooped up in the sub for weeks on end. Zamyatin’s GPS coordinates, transmitted along with his final broadcast, had led them to yesterday’s fatal battleground.

“Eyes open!” he exhorted his men. Lookouts were posted along the perimeter, vigilant for any suspicious movements. “Safeties off. Arms at the ready.”

Such orders were almost certainly unnecessary. The carnage at their feet was enough to keep the men alert to danger. Wary sailors gripped their weapons tightly, some jumping at every stray gust of wind. A veteran submariner, Losenko felt uncomfortably exposed out here in the open. He preferred to fight his wars from the depths of the ocean. His men no doubt felt equally out of place. They were sailors, not commandoes.

We are out of our element, Losenko thought. Like fish out of water.

He would not turn back, however, until he had uncovered what sort of devilry was underway. Zamyatin and his men had discovered this infamous factory, and had paid with their lives. That they had been mercilessly gunned down, just for approaching the facility, implied that its secrets were of great importance, at least to someone.

That it was also the only evidence of life for leagues added to the captain’s curiosity. He needed to know what in Russia had survived the war—if only for the sake of his own sanity.

The road rose and fell between the battle site and the factory, following the natural contours of the terrain. Walking along the curb, he climbed to the crest of a low hill and crouched down behind the concealing shelter of an abandoned mail truck. He scooted along the tilted hood, being careful to keep his head low. A lookout, the barrel of his rifle laid across the top of the hood, squatted beside Losenko. Pavel Gorski glanced up briefly from his rifle sight.

“Watch yourself, skipper,” the boy warned in a hushed tone. The young enlisted man usually worked in the torpedo room. “I hear the scouts never saw it coming.”

Losenko could tell that Gorski was frightened. Like the rest of the crew, he had never seen real combat before.

“Do not worry about your captain,” he replied. “A submariner knows better than to stick his periscope where it might be shot at!”

The quip elicited a weak smile.

“I guess you would know, sir!”

“Just pretend that rifle fires torpedoes,” Losenko advised, nodding. “Then you’ll feel right at home.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” The lookout shifted his grip on the weapon. “Just like back on the boat.”

Losenko wanted to promise Gorski that he would see his bunk on K-115 again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Despite the danger, he peered over the crumpled metal hood, to inspect the puzzle that had lured the scouting team to their end.

Just as Zamyatin had reported, the factory dominated the horizon several meters to the west. Pillars of thick white exhaust spewed from its looming chimneys, polluting the air. Periodic gouts of bright orange flames shot upward from the smoke stacks, making them look like gigantic roman candles.

If Losenko strained his ears, he could even hear the sound of heavy machinery. The clanging noises, the rumbling assembly lines would have never been tolerated aboard a submarine, where silence was paramount. Flashing lights as bright as a welder’s torch could be glimpsed through cracks in the drawn metal shutters. The plant sat on the banks of the Ponoy River, the better to discharge its noxious wastes into the flowing current.

My apologies, Oleg, the captain thought. It appears you were not hallucinating after all. He glanced back over his shoulder at the tread marks and grease stains, then looked back at the factory. A grim conviction took root in his mind.

It was impossible to tell at this distance exactly what was being manufactured within the sprawling facility, but he doubted that it was microwave ovens or cheap compact cars.

A squad of machines....

Something buzzed overhead. At first, Losenko thought it was a bug, but then he glanced up and caught a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye. An unmanned aerial vehicle, about the size of a large kite, flew above them. Its streamlined black wingspan was about three meters from tip to tip. Miniature red sensors, mounted in its nose turret, scanned the territory.

Losenko’s blood went cold. He knew at once what he was looking at: a remote-control surveillance drone. Russian military and counter-terrorism forces had been experimenting with such mechanisms for years now, as had the Americans. Indeed, the unmanned aerial vehicle that hovered above them bore a strong resemblance to the Scan Eagles employed by the U.S. military. They were intended to perform aerial reconnaissance missions in a variety of environments, without endangering flesh-and-blood soldiers.

“Damnation!” he cursed. “We’ve been spotted.”

Gorski spied the flying drone as well. With admirable speed and aim, he shouldered his rifle and fired at the UAV. The muzzle brake deflected the sound of the blast to the sides, much to Losenko’s discomfort. Hot lead sprayed across the device’s flight path.

It changed course abruptly, zigging and zagging across the sky with frightening agility. A lucky shot winged it, however, and it went spinning through the air. Sparks flew from its tail, it dipped precipitously, then righted itself at the last moment. As it swooped upward again, slowing long enough to stabilize its erratic tumbling, Gorski let loose with another volley.

This time the drone wasn’t fast enough to evade the gunfire. Flames erupted as the 5.45-millimeter rounds punched through its lightweight composite casing.

“I got him!” Gorski whooped jubilantly. “Torpedoes away!”

But the drone wasn’t dead yet. As though determined to take its attacker with it, the UAV reversed course and dived straight at Losenko and Gorski. Trailing a plume of fire and smoke, it whistled through the air like a miniature missile.

“Incoming!” Losenko shouted. He shoved Gorski out of the way.

With only seconds to spare, the men hurled themselves in opposite directions. The kamikaze drone crashed to earth between them, digging a furrow deep in the soil alongside the road. Dirt and gravel went flying.

Gorski scrambled to his feet on the other side of the crater. He slammed a fresh banana clip into his AK-74, then took aim at the crashed drone.

“Come on, you flying maggot!” he snarled, taking out all his pent-up fear and anger on the pulverized machine. Blowback from the rifle smudged his face. “I’m ready for you!”

“That’s enough, sailor.” Losenko lifted himself from the ground. This time of year, the upper layer of permafrost was loose and soggy. “You’ve killed it once already.”

Not that it mattered. While impressed by Gorski’s reflexes and marksmanship, the captain knew the damage had already been done. The drone had surely reported their presence back to its unknown masters, just as the gunfire had given away their location. Losenko felt as though his hull had been pinged by an enemy sub’s sonar.

We have to get out of here, he realized. Now.

“After me!” he said to Gorski. They sprinted down the hill toward the rest of the patrol, who were already rushing to join the battle. Anxious eyes scanned the hill between them and the factory. Agitated voices pelted Losenko with questions.

“Retreat! Back to the cars!” he shouted over the clamor. He gestured back the way they had come. “Reverse course, full turbines! Gorski! Fedin! Cover our rear!”

He prayed they could get away without a fight, but the odds of that happening were shrinking by the minute. At least we know what we’re in for... unlike Zamyatin.

“But, skipper!” Ostrovosky looked back at the fallen bodies of the scouting party. “Lieutenant Zamyatin and the others....”

“Leave them!” Losenko barked. He hated to abandon the dead crewmen, but if they tried to recover the bodies, they would quickly join them. He prodded Ostrovosky between the shoulders with the muzzle of his pistol. “Eyes front! That’s an order!”

He stepped over Pagodin’s rotting remains.

Dasvidania, comrade.

The men raced at full speed away from the carnage. Their boots pounded against the bloodstained blacktop. Stealth was no longer an issue, so they didn’t bother clinging to the shadows as they had on the way in. Losenko hung back, near the rear of the exodus, constantly glancing back in expectation of seeing the enemy in pursuit.

But what enemy? The question nagged at him even as he hurried his charges back toward their waiting transport. Fourteen men dead, and we still don’t even know who we’re running from!

They had only made it a few meters before the trap was sprung. A loud metallic clatter caught Losenko by surprise. To the left, the corrugated steel door guarding one of the storage units rolled up noisily, exposing a dark cavernous space beyond. A pair of glowing red eyes lit up in the shadows. A motor roared to life—and a thing rolled out of the open unit.

Losenko’s eyes widened in shock.

Exposed beneath the pitiless glare of the arctic sun was a robotic killing machine mounted on tank-like treads. About the size of the conn area back in the control room, it resembled the remote-controlled robots used by bomb squads to detonate suspicious packages. Heavy armor plating—the dull gray color of gunmetal—shielded the machine’s base, torso, and head. The wedge-shaped cranial case had a vaguely serpentine appearance. The robot rose from a defensive crouch until it was nearly three meters tall. Optical sensors, installed in the viper-like “face,” scanned the scene. A pair of menacing black chain guns served as the robot’s arms.

They had met the enemy—and he was not human.

Servomotors whirred into action. Targeting lasers swept over the startled humans. The robot opened fire, unleashing a continuous spray of bullets that cut down a third of the patrol in a matter of seconds. The deafening report of the chain guns, which fired shot after shot with murderous efficiency, drowned out the men’s final screams. Bright arterial blood spurted from gaping wounds. Depleted uranium slugs punched through protective flak jackets as though they were made of tissue.

The robot rolled easily over the uneven terrain. Its head and shoulders swiveled from side to side, raking the road with a scythe of whizzing death. Its spinning muzzles flared like hellfire.

Losenko threw himself onto the pavement. Bullets whizzed about his head, practically grazing his scalp. He wriggled forward on his hands and knees toward the nearest available shelter: the soggy ditch alongside the road. He tumbled headfirst into the gully, landing between two bulldozed vehicles. Bodies hit the asphalt only a few meters away.

This is like something out of a science fiction movie! he thought. The mechanical monster hadn’t even issued a warning before opening fire. This wasn’t security; it was slaughter, pure and simple. What sort of madman programmed this thing? And sent it out to kill?

Just when he thought matters couldn’t get worse, the garage doors at the service station blew off their hinges. A second robot, identical to the first, rumbled out on the other side of the street. Its chain guns rotated into place. Unblinking red eyes surveyed the carnage.

A sailor who had been hiding behind one of the empty gas pumps spun around in surprise. He fired frantically at the newcomer, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the robot’s sooty steel carapace, striking sparks off the armor. The man emptied his weapon, then tossed the rifle aside. He threw his hands up above his head.

“Don’t shoot!” he squealed. “I surrender!”

The robot pivoted toward him. The muzzles of the chain guns flared. Twin bursts of gunfire all but cut the unarmed sailor in two. His bisected body flopped limply onto the concrete.

Surrender, it seemed, was not an option.

Losenko squeezed beneath a wrecked convertible. His coat snagged on the jagged underside of the vehicle before tearing loose. A rusty exhaust pipe scraped against his back. Coming out on the other side, he clambered to his feet. A quick glance revealed little hope of survival, for himself or his men.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered. “They don’t deserve this....”

The vicious crossfire had left only a handful of sailors alive. The terrified survivors were in full retreat, dashing down the road away from the ambush. Their only chance was to get back to the vehicles they had stowed at the junkyard half a kilometer away. They fired back at the robots as they ran, to maddeningly little effect. Smoke bombs, hurled by the fleeing men, offered only minimal cover. The deadly machines rolled out onto the street. Their armored treads trampled over the bodies, grinding flesh and bone into the blacktop.

Losenko recalled Pagodin’s panicky final broadcast.

“Nothing’s stopping them! They just keep coming...!”

He hurried after the fleeing sailors. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted, although it was doubtful they could hear him over the roar of the chain guns. Eschewing the center of the road, he raced across a series of adjoining parking lots, taking evasive action to avoid the whizzing bullets. “Don’t wait for me! Get back to the boat!”

Somebody had to warn Ivanov and the crew back at the sub.

Hairs rose on the back of his neck. Some sort of psychic sonar alerted him to danger. Glancing back over his shoulder, he found himself looking straight into the crimson sensors of the first robot. A targeting bead lit up his chest. The robot’s right-hand cannon swung toward him.

“Down, sir!”

Gorski sprang up like a jack-in-the-box from behind a roadside bus shelter. With expert aim, he fired at a narrow band of exposed hydraulics around the neck assembly. Valves and circuitry ruptured violently. Oily black ichor sprayed like blood. The robot’s gun-arms jerked erratically as its torso rotated 360 degrees to protect its throat. A blistering volley of gunfire strafed the air above Losenko’s head. Glass from a shattered streetlight rained down onto his scalp.

“That’s for Lieutenant Zamyatin!” Gorski gloated. “See, Captain! We can hurt them. You just have to hit the right targets!”

The marksman’s triumph was short-lived. The second robot avenged the attack on its partner by turning both its guns on Gorski. Twin blasts from its barrels flung him against the back of the bus shelter. His body danced spasmodically beneath the impact of the bullets. The Kalashnikov went flying from his fingers. A faded advertisement on the shelter urged commuters to explore “Exciting New Careers in Electronics & Computer Programming!”

Losenko’s tore his gaze from the grisly spectacle. Running as though the entire American Army was after him, he was half a block away before Gorski’s bullet-riddled body collapsed onto the curb. Broken glass shattered beneath his feet. The damaged robot retreated, perhaps for repairs, while its murderous comrade continued the pursuit. Its versatile treads easily navigated the potholes and crevices marring the two-lane highway. Mechanical limbs moved with unnerving fluidity.

The monster smelled of smoke and oil.

A valiant sailor struggled to assist a wounded crewmate. His arm around the other man’s shoulders, he half-supported, half-dragged his limping comrade as they lurched after Losenko and the others. Seaman Sasha Krosotkin’s heroism, while worthy of a medal, proved fruitless; unmoved by the touching display, the robot reduced both men to bloody pulp. It then trundled past their intertwined bodies without a backward glance.

For the first time in his life, Losenko truly hated a machine.

Running low on ammo, Ostrovosky resorted to flinging signal flares at the robot. Blinding scarlet flames erupted across the highway, adding to the chaos. The robot fired on the flares as though they were armed combatants. Losenko guessed that the machine’s thermal sensors had trouble distinguishing between the road flares and the heat signatures of a firing rifle. Good, he thought, welcoming the distraction. Anything to slow the machine down.

One of flares rolled beneath the robot’s treads just as it bulldozed over the body of another murdered sailor. The incendiary device ignited the corpse’s spare ammo clips, triggering an explosion that rocked the robot from below. Losenko watched hopefully as the robot toppled over onto its side, then cursed as the stubborn mechanism began to right itself. Internal shielding seemed to protect its vital components from the blast but its treads appeared to be badly damaged. Smoke gushed from beneath it as the machine awkwardly limped forward. The chain guns spewed a seemingly inexhaustible swarm of hungry metal slugs.

Bile rose at the back of Losenko’s throat. Could nothing stop these cursed machines?

The next several minutes were like a nightmare. There was no order or precision to the men’s flight, only a dwindling number of panicked submariners being cut down as they ran. Losenko had lost track of the body count within the first few seconds of the ambush. Adrenalin fueled his headlong race along the edge of the road. Stray debris, puddles, and depressions threatened to trip him, lying across his path like pitfalls. He stumbled over a toppled “STOP” sign, almost pitching forward onto his face, but managed to regain his balance before it was too late.

The close call left him gasping. He knew that if he fell, he would never get back up again. The relentless machine would trample him just as it had the first few victims.

We mean nothing to them, he raged. They have no hearts. No souls.

His breath was ragged. A painful stitch stabbed him in the side. The racing of his pulse resounded behind his ears. His mouth was as dry as one of the Gorshkov’s airtight compartments. He couldn’t remember the last time he had run so hard or for so long. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He cursed himself for not spending more time on the treadmill back on the sub. How dare he let himself get so out of shape!

For the first time since the missiles flew, he realized that he wasn’t ready to die yet.

If they could just get back to the cars!

Gunfire blasted behind him as the maimed robot disposed of more stragglers. Losenko glanced back. The drifting haze of the smoke bombs obscured his view. Was it just his imagination, or was the killing machine falling behind? He thanked providence for the freak explosion that had damaged its treads. How far, he wondered, was the robot willing to chase them before returning to its base of operations? All the way back to the docks?

Desperate minutes felt like hours, and he had begun to doubt whether any of them would see K-115 again, when he finally spied the dilapidated chain-link fence surrounding the junkyard. Hope flared in his heart. Maybe they still had a chance. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the station wagon. From the looks of things, the wagon alone might have room enough to carry all that remained of the patrol. Besides himself, there looked to be only seven or eight men left alive... out of a team of twenty-five brave volunteers.

Someone will pay for this, he vowed silently. I swear it upon the lives of my men!

“Thank heaven!” Ostrovosky gasped, appearing a few meters ahead of the captain. The sight of the junkyard gave the exhausted sailors a second wind. They dashed toward the front gate with renewed hope and alacrity. The assistant radio operator slowed to catch his breath. “I never thought we were going to make it!”

Neither did I, Losenko agreed.

A shocking burst of gunfire, coming from inside the junkyard, froze the men in their tracks. Losenko skidded to a halt, his heart sinking like an anchor. By now, he recognized the telltale rat-a-tat of the robots’ ever-firing chain guns.

A crazed shout was cut off mid-expletive.

The guards! Losenko realized. The ones left behind to watch the cars.

A gas tank exploded within the auto graveyard. The station wagon? One of the other vehicles? A bright orange fireball rose into the sky. Clouds of pungent black smoke billowed upward. Mangled pieces of steel were thrown into the air, only to clatter to the ground like a metal hailstorm. Losenko felt the heat of the blaze upon his face. He choked on the fumes.

“Nyet!” Ostrovosky dropped to his knees. Anguish contorted his face. His military discipline faltered, exposing the overwhelmed human being beneath the uniform. “It’s not fair! We were almost there!”

Losenko knew just how he felt. It seemed as if fate was conspiring against them. Mother Russia had become a slaughterhouse overrun by heartless mechanical butchers.

We should have stayed at sea where we were safe!

A scorching wind drove them back, away from the searing flames. For a brief moment, Losenko entertained a desperate hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the robot in the junkyard had been destroyed by the explosion, along with the patrol’s only means of transportation.

He scanned the open road that lay before them. The junkyard had been located at the outer fringe of the industrial center. Nearly a hundred kilometers of barren tundra stretched between them and the remote fishing village where the Gorshkov was docked. He could hear the second robot rumbling behind them. His eyes searched the surrounding territory for the safest route back. Alas, the rugged terrain, carpeted by moss and sedge, offered little in the way of shelter.

Perhaps if they scattered and headed cross-country?

Such strategies evaporated as a third robot tore out of the burning junkyard, smashing straight through the dump’s locked front gate. Its burnished armor hadn’t even been scorched by the conflagration. Smoke rose from the muzzles of its twin chain guns. Speeding onto the highway, it wheeled around to face the panicky humans, blocking their escape. Its upper body straightened, assuming its full height as it staked out the high ground atop another low hill. A burst of fire sent the men darting for cover.

Ostrovosky did not get off his knees fast enough. Rapid-fire rounds shredded the hard-living young man. He went down in a geyser of scarlet mist. Sticky red droplets sprayed across Losenko’s face.

We’re trapped, the captain realized. The other robot had herded them straight into the sights of the mechanized assassin that stood before them. He wondered how long they had been under the machines’ surveillance. And why they had been marked for death in the first place. This is our homeland, which we killed millions to defend. We should be welcome here!

To their credit, his men refused to be slaughtered without a fight. Darting for cover, they opened fire on the homicidal robot. The smell of cordite added to the suffocating fumes blowing from the raging fire that had engulfed the junkyard. An impressive display of fire-power actually succeeded in holding the robot off for a moment or two.

Losenko drew his own pistol and took aim at the neck assembly, just as Gorski had done earlier. The marksman’s ugly demise flashed across his mind’s eye, but he savagely pushed the image out of his thoughts. He needed all his wits about him now.

Don’t think, he commanded himself. Just shoot, damnit!

Then one of his shots struck home. Circuits shorted in the junction connecting the monster’s left gun-arm to its torso. Discharged electricity crackled. The arm twitched and drooped limply to one side. Hydraulic fluid spurted onto the pavement.

But even crippled, the robot still had one good arm left with which to fight. Its upper body rotated toward Losenko, the whir of the chain gun promising high-caliber retaliation. The captain swore he saw a flash of anger in the robot’s luminous red sensors.

Impossible.

Braving the scorching heat and smoke, he retreated toward the junkyard, only to find himself backed against an intact length of the chain-link fencing. The metal links were hot to the touch; he could feel them through the back of his heavy wool coat.

The robot’s head tracked the captain’s movements. Random fire bounced off its armor plating. It raised its single working gun-arm.

His back against the red-hot fence, Losenko had no place left to run. Insanely, his ex-wife’s face surfaced from some forgotten corner of his memory. Katerina. He wondered if she would be waiting for him, despite everything....

He braced himself for death. If he was lucky, it would be quick, like facing a firing squad. He kept his eyes open, willing himself to meet his end like a man—tempted to spit in defiance, but what was the point? The gesture would mean nothing to a machine. Instead he merely glared at the hateful mechanism, wishing he had its anonymous inventor in his sights.

If only Zamyatin had never laid eyes on that goddamn factory.

Well, he thought impatiently. What are you waiting for?

To his surprise, the robot’s head swiveled from left to right, its optical sensors scanning for its prey. Losenko’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He didn’t understand.

Why didn’t it fire?

Unless....

He recalled how the emergency flares had distracted the other robot. If the machine’s targeting circuits relied on auditory, heat, and motion sensors, then maybe the raging fire was blinding it, concealing his precise location. That’s got to be it, he thought. If I just stand still, it can’t “see” me against the blaze!

Unfortunately, the intense heat was hard on human flesh as well. Spreading flames consumed the junkyard, moving ever closer to where Losenko stood. Smoke stung his throat and nostrils, and he bit down on his knuckles to keep from coughing. His back felt like it was on fire, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay where he was.

Soon he would be forced to choose between burning to death or being gunned down by a trigger-happy robot....

What a decision!

Red-hot flames licked at the opposite side of the fence. Animal instinct threatened to overcome logic, and he was on the verge of hurling himself away from the inferno. Suddenly, an ear-piercing blast of sound sliced through the air.

What the devil? Losenko thought. That sounds like an air horn! He tore his gaze away from the confused robot in time to see an armored truck—of the sort formerly used to transport cash and valuables—come speeding toward the battlefield. Tinted windows of bulletproof glass concealed the driver from view. A dented piece of sheet metal in the shape of a tombstone was welded to the front grille. A crudely rendered caricature of a robot’s skull was etched on its surface. Both headlights were blown out. Reinforced plastic liners protected the tires.

A powerful engine roared as the truck zoomed madly down the highway, straight toward the automaton.

The machine appeared to be just as surprised as Losenko by the truck’s unexpected arrival. It turned away from the burning junkyard, its upper body rotating ninety degrees to face the oncoming vehicle. It barely had time to fire off a single burst of uranium rounds, which failed to penetrate the truck’s hardened-steel shell. The bulletproof windshield cracked, but did not shatter.

The truck struck the robot at high speed. Its considerable mass and momentum flattened the machine, which disappeared beneath the armored chassis.

Losenko’s jaw dropped. He felt as though he had been tossed a lifeline. He staggered away from the blazing junkyard toward the road. Painful coughs cleared the smoke from his lungs. Confused eyes sought out the truck that had just saved him.

Who...?

The armored vehicle spun around, turning its back toward the captain and his men. Brakes squealed as it skidded to a halt a few meters away. A pair of double doors slammed open, revealing human figures in the cargo hold. An outstretched arm beckoned to the surviving sailors.

“Get in!” a raspy female voice called out. Losenko got a quick impression of a short, stocky woman in soiled work clothes.

“Hurry!”