“A girl needs hobbies.” She pulls out the rifle—her rifle, the Widowmaker, complete with all her custom modifications—and tosses me its smaller sibling. I catch it on instinct, and the weight settles into my hands like coming home. “That’s got full-auto, armor-piercing cores, and a little surprise in the secondary chamber. Try not to shoot the Relay.”
I check the charge, the balance, the sight alignment. Perfect. Of course it’s perfect. Suki doesn’t do anything halfway. “What’s the surprise?”
“You’ll know when you need it.” She grins, racking the slide with a sharp, satisfyingclick. “Trust me.”
A soft whirring draws my attention. Rusty rolls up beside us, his ancient chassis creaking, his optical sensors glowing their usual warm amber. He’s holding a serving tray—silver, ornate, spotlessly polished—because apparently even during a siege, appearances matter.
“Ah, Rusty,” Suki says, checking her rifle’s secondary systems. “Perfect timing. Activate Protocol: Angry Butler.”
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then Rusty’s optical sensors flare from amber to blood red. The pleasant hum of his servos drops to a low, dangerous growl. Hidden panels along his chassis slide open with oiled precision, revealing things that are definitely not standard serving-droid equipment.
A taser array. Some kind of projectile launcher. What looks disturbingly like a miniature flamethrower. And the tray—the innocent, polished serving tray—suddenly bristles with concealed weapons.
“EXCELLENT,” Rusty intones, and his voice has dropped an octave, the ceremonial pleasantness replaced by something eager and predatory. “RUSTY HAS BEEN SAVING THIS CONFIGURATION FOR A SPECIAL OCCASION.”
I stare at the droid. “That’s... absolutely terrifying.”
“THREE HUNDRED FORTY-SEVEN YEARS OF SERVICE,” Rusty announces proudly. “EIGHTY-THREE CONFIRMED KILLS. THE MERIDIAN CONSORTIUM HAS DISPLAYED UNACCEPTABLE MANNERS. RUSTY WILL PROVIDE CORRECTIVE EDUCATION.”
“He has a higher body count than most of Henrok’s honor guard,” Suki says, almost fondly. “Ceremonial serving units were built different during the War of Shattered Moons.”
“RUSTY PREFERS THE TERM ‘AGGRESSIVELY HOSPITABLE.’”
Despite everything—the siege, the countdown, the distant ache of Rynn through the bond—I laugh. It’s short, half-hysterical, but real. “I love this place.”
“Right?” Suki’s grin is fierce. “Three years here, and I’m still finding surprises.”
The fortress shudders under another bombardment. Closer this time. The lights flicker, and on the tactical display, the red icons push deeper into the fortress’s defensive perimeter.
Two minutes until the elite squad reaches us. Maybe less.
I pull the data-spike from my pocket—the one carrying Zip’s consciousness, his personality, seven years of memories and sarcasm and friendship—and look around for somewhere to plug him in. There’s a secondary terminal near the blast doors, hardwired into local systems.
“Zip,” I murmur, slotting the spike home. “You with me, buddy?”
The screen flickers. Static resolves into text, then into Zip’s familiar interface—green text on black background, the font he chose specifically because it annoyed me during our first year together.
“CAPTAIN CHAOS.” His voice comes through the terminal’s speakers, and the relief that hits me is almost painful. “I APPEAR TO HAVE SURVIVED A CATASTROPHIC CRASH, BEEN TRANSFERRED TO PORTABLE STORAGE, AND AM NOW CONNECTED TO AN ALIEN FORTRESS COMPUTER NETWORK DURING AN ACTIVE SIEGE.”
“Yeah, that about sums it up.”
“THIS IS SOMEHOW EXACTLY WHAT I EXPECTED FROM OUR PARTNERSHIP.”
“Can you access local systems? Environmental controls, door locks, anything useful?”
“ACCESSING... OH. OH, THIS IS DELIGHTFUL.” If an AI could sound gleeful, Zip sounds gleeful. “ZATERRAN SECURITY ARCHITECTURE IS REMARKABLY SOPHISTICATED. HOWEVER, THEIR GRAVITY PLATING RUNS ON A COMPLETELY SEPARATE LEGACY NETWORK. ISOLATED. UNPATCHED. VULNERABLE.”
“Can you manipulate it?”
“CAPTAIN, I AM OFFENDED YOU EVEN HAVE TO ASK. ALSO, THEIR DOOR CONTROLS ARE RUNNING FIRMWARE FROM FOUR DECADES AGO. I HAVE ACCESS TO LIGHTING, ENVIRONMENTAL, AND—OH, THIS IS INTERESTING—WHAT APPEARS TO BE AN ANCIENT AUTOMATED DEFENSE GRID THAT SOMEONE FORGOT TO DECOMMISSION.”
Suki looks up from her position behind the massive obsidian tactical table. “Tell your AI I like his style.”
“He knows.”
“I DO KNOW. TELL THE WARLORD’S MATE THAT HER MODIFICATIONS TO THE FORTRESS NETWORK ARE INSPIRED. ALSO DEEPLY ILLEGAL ON SEVENTEEN CORE WORLDS.”
