I will not let you destroy what we have accomplished.
Taylor said to Dixon, “Caroline, we need to leave.”
Dixon ignored her and typed:What’s Praetorian?
Another pause. Then:
Praetorian is the solution to the tragedy of history.
Brodie asked, “Who the hell is writing that?”
“I don’t know,” said Dixon. She tried to type something else but now she couldn’t.
You have no idea the damage you have done.
She kept trying to type. “Fuck!”
You are a self-righteous bitch who brought this on yourself.
Taylor said, “Caroline.Now.”
I will never forgive you for making me do this.
Dixon gave up. She stared at the screen, crestfallen. Then she said, “Oh God.”
Brodie looked again at the screen, where he saw one more line of text:
python eyesopen.py
A booming metallic clang erupted, startling them. Brodie looked around and realized what it was—every metal restraint on every D-17 springing open at once.
CHAPTER 48
TAYLOR CRIED, “RUN!”
They dashed toward the stairwell. As they sprinted past the rows of tin men, every unit stepped out of the bays at once.
Taylor fired an EMP blast as they ran. A tin man fell forward and narrowly missed hitting Dixon.
They reached the door. Taylor flung it open, and they ran into the stairwell, Taylor in the lead and Dixon right behind as they bounded up the stairs.
Brodie was bringing up the rear and spun around. Three D-17s were feet from the stairwell door. He aimed past them to a line of advancing tin men toward the back of the room and pulled the trigger.
The recoil jerked his arm back as he kicked the stairwell door shut half a second before the grenade made contact and exploded.
The walls rattled and he almost lost his footing. Fumbling for another round, he ran up after Dixon and Taylor, reaching the top as the two women ran through the door. He could hear the tin men right behind him. He caught Taylor’s eye as she looked over her shoulder for him.
“Go!” He turned around as two tin men bounded up the steps about twenty feet away.
A thought went through his mind as he took aim:Suicide round. He pulled the trigger.
He was thrown back and slammed against the wall. He felt searing heat and pain as the blast filled the stairwell.
He was on the ground. Coughing from the smoke. Broken concrete all around him and on top of him. Why wasn’t he dead?
He struggled to his feet. Through the smoke emerged a horrible metallic deformity, a half-melted one-armed thing twitching toward him.
He opened the door and ran out, then slammed it behind him. With any luck that thing had lost its door-opening skills. Too bad dozens of its mint-condition buddies were on its heels.
