They approached the east-west road that ran along the north end of Camp Hayden. To their right was the burning armory. To the left was the barracks. All the windows were dark, as were the surrounding streetlights. The D-17s had likely killed the power.
Brodie and Dixon began walking toward the barracks—then froze.A large group of tin men was standing about fifty feet in front of the building.
Dixon whispered, “We’re too late.”
They hid behind the nearest building and watched. There was a line of about thirty D-17s, each one holding a shoulder-fired rocket-propelled grenade launcher, aimed at the barracks.
Oh shit.
Brodie noticed another tin man, standing in front of the line. Instead of a weapon, it was holding up a bullhorn.
“Attention, traitors,” it said in its flat, emotionless voice, amplified and echoing across the base. “There are forty-seven humans in this building. You have three men in the windows with binoculars to surveil us, four with grenade launchers aimed at us, and a single Ranger with an M2 Browning machine gun. You have many EMP weapons, but they are useless at this range. You also have a single EMP bomb that you are attempting to charge with the emergency backup generator in your building, but you do not have adequate time to render it effective, and even if you did, we are outside its range. We have thirty rocket-propelled grenade launchers aimed at your structure. We have over three hundred RPG rounds at our disposal. To make a long story short, you have no chance of survival. To make a long story short, if you attempt to fire on us, we will destroy this building and kill everyone inside. To make a long story short, if you do not follow our commands precisely, we will destroy this building and kill everyone inside.” It added, “Please give me a verbal cue that you have understood my message.”
A voice from inside the barracks yelled, “Fuck you!”
“Thank you,” said the bot.
Brodie and Dixon exchanged a look. What the hell was this?
The bot continued, “We demand that the following individuals exit the barracks without weapons and turn themselves over to our custody: Scott Brodie, Magnolia Taylor, Caroline Dixon.”
The bot lowered the bullhorn and stood motionless.
Brodie and Dixon were speechless. For Brodie, just hearing his own name spoken by one of these freaks was surreal.
Dixon said, “This is about controlling knowledge of Praetorian. What it really is, what it’s really meant for. That information cannot get out.”
The bot with the bullhorn repeated, “Scott Brodie, Magnolia Taylor, Caroline Dixon. Exit the barracks immediately and without weapons, or you are condemning everyone here to die.”
Brodie didn’t think they had much of a choice here. Certain death if they fought back, probable death if they didn’t. But there was maybe a chance for all the people in the barracks. That was worth something. Actually, it was worth a lot.
Brodie put the machine gun down, then unslung the grenade launcher and set it and his ammo vest next to the M240. He said to Dixon, “I can’t make this choice for you. You can try to escape. But I’m going.”
Dixon set her rifle down. “We’re taking this to the end, Scott. Whatever that looks like.”
“You’re very brave.”
“So are you. Or stupid.”
“A little of both.”
They emerged from behind the building and walked down the road toward the D-17s. Brodie looked up at the darkened barracks, and he could vaguely make out the shapes of gunners and spotters in the windows. In some other version of this encounter, this was their Alamo moment, their fight to the death. But not like this. He looked at the line of D-17s with their RPGs pointed at the building. There was no honor here. Just annihilation.
The lead bot’s head swiveled to its right and locked on them as they approached. Brodie could now see that it was unit Number 7.
They stopped about ten feet from it and Brodie said, “Hey, Mickey. Can I call you Mickey?”
“I don’t care what you call me,” replied Mickey. “Where is Magnolia Taylor?”
“She’s dead,” said Brodie.
“No, she is not,” said Mickey. “We know who is dead.”
That was a relief. “Well, if you know that, you should know where she is.”
“You are a smart-mouth,” said Mickey.
“No,” said Brodie. “Ihavea smart mouth. Or Iama smart-ass.”
