12 Miles Below

The snap hiss of my knife echoed in the room. Of course, I hadn’t brought out my knife to fight four against one.

The knife cut down on the last two table legs I’d been working on before they'd gotten here. Job done, I tossed it away without pausing. There wasn’t time to properly sheath it back in my boot. Instead, my arms wrapped around the freed metal table. It easily flipped vertically, a massive shield. If that door was going to break on me, then I’ll gods damned make my own.

I charged forward, slamming the full table into crumbling defense. My shoulder locked in place against the entryway. With my free right hand, I drew out the scavenger pistol.

"Journey, how many are there?" Last I counted, I’d shot and broke three skulls. There should be four.

“Motion sensors detect four entities outside.” Journey confirmed a moment later.

Ten bullets for four targets. Those were good enough odds. A deep breath later, and I peeked between the improvised door. I aimed for my first target.

There's this book I once read that had a great quote in it. I’ll paraphrase: Never assume the enemy is as stupid as you are.

I assumed like a true moron that they'd basically just keep trying to break the door open while I shot them. Like good little monsters. No, there was an elegant solution to dealing with a camping rat like me, hiding behind a barricade.

There wasn’t even time to press the trigger before one dove a hand in through the gap and yanked the weapon out of my surprised hand. And just like that, the gun was tossed away and out of the picture. I had messed up. Bad.

"Uh, Keith to search party."

"Search party copies,"

"What's the ETA? Because I really need you all right here, right now."

"Assuming we don't run into another dead end, ten minutes."

It's fine. Everything is ok. No one liked Plan B anyway. It’s time for plan C! Whenever I figure out what that is.

The table yanked hard against me; the monsters trying to shove me backwards. It was now a pure contest between Journey's strength and theirs. That was a lucky break on my part. Journey had them beat in the strength department.

I bought about three minutes before they gave up on trying to beat Journey in a competition of strength.

Next, they tried to claw at me. Here, they made the same mistake I had done, about assuming your enemy's competence.

They couldn't shove against me because Journey was stronger. It shouldn't come as a surprise that a single relic armor arm was also stronger than a single automaton one by that logic.

Did they think I was going to let them claw at me without fighting back? I ripped two of their limbs apart with my free hand, each time they snaked close enough to grab. “Delicious!” I yelled out at them, smacking my lips. “Give me more!”

The machines realized this wasn’t going to work and promptly aborted. They clicked and screamed robot profanities back at me. At least that was my guess at what they were saying. Well, if they were going to start trash talking, it wouldn’t be very sportive of me to ignore them. “Try again you little scrapshits, maybe it’ll work this time. No really, I swear I’ll give you a handicap.”

If they got the pun, they didn’t make much of a ruckus about it. Instead, the onslaught came to a stop. There was a break in the fight now, while both sides regrouped and tried to figure out another way.

I could hear them chittering to each other, continuing their automaton pow-wow. And I just sat fuming about what else I had to work with. My dagger was on the floor, out of reach since I hadn’t had the time to sheath it after cutting the table legs free. Cathida’s sword was on the ground further away, dropped off with my Father’s body. My rifle was still on it’s strap, but other than a glorified bat, I couldn’t see how else to make use of it. I did have two ripped off automaton limbs, but they’d also end up as glorified bats at this point.

"Journey, any way to tell what they're saying?" Maybe I can spy on them.

"Negative." It replied.

“Figures.” Worth a try.

I knocked on the table, getting their attention “Hey you over-engineered calculators! I’m willing to offer you terms of surrender. Given my massive, sweeping advantage here, I recommend you accept.”

They screamed back angrily.

“I’ll assume that’s a no.” I muttered to myself.

Through the gaps, I could catch a few glimpses of what my uncanny enemy was up to. One of the machines broke off from the group, climbing over the roof. I could hear as its mass lumbered over loudly, all power and no subtlety. The other three moved away together, searching for something. The doorway was clear for the moment.

To my suprise, they had left my pistol further out of reach just outside. Almost intentionally positioned and lined up to the doorway so I couldn’t possibly miss spotting it. That couldn’t have been more obvious bait if it had a sign post attached on top with a skull sign. Did they really think I’d go for that?

The second best use of this pause in the fight was to gather up some weapons. I couldn’t see any of them nearby, and the motion sensors showed all four dots, three clustered together further away and one sulking around the roof.

Going outside for the scavenger pistol was out of the picture, they’d see that a mile away. But going for the knife and occult longblade was a more sound move. I double checked their possible locations and then made my move.

Rushing over, I picked up both my discarded knife and the crusader’s old blade. It was better than nothing. I could try to make a run for it right now, further into the building. There's a chance I could find a more secure place to hold out. Ten minutes was the goal. The single scout was alone too. My blades would make quick work of it if I caught it alone.

Another glance out the gaps and my heart sank.

The three machines had returned with a massive metal box. A water heater or a terminal of some sort. Function didn't matter in this case, only weight. And they were struggling to keep it off the ground. I raced back to brace the door.

How does one deal with a fortress door that’s been barred? There's a long and storied history of human ingenuity solving exactly that problem. Instead of hitting the fortress door very hard, the actual solution was to hit it even harder.

I swore as they prepared to ram the door down. "Journey, do you think you can withstand something like that?"

"Unable to calculate. Not enough information to generate a meaningful result."

They started charging. Both my hands braced against the metal door and I prepared for the worse.

Scrapshit, scrapshit, scra- The hit was deafening, it bent the table around my hands even, metal screeching with the damage. Boots dug through the rough floor, but I survived the hit. Barely.

The enemy screeched, angry their plan hadn’t just worked right off the bat. They took another lap backwards, going for another run. It hadn’t worked the first time, but it had clearly caused a dent. A few more rams and they’d wreck the building itself.

"Search party to Winterscar," The comms clicked.

"I copy, hope it's good news because I really need that right now."

"I wish I could tell you otherwise. We hit another dead end. We're backtracking to find another way forward. ETA is delayed."

Heh. I was going to die.

The news settled over me like a comfortable cloak. Maybe it was those drugs I took after the first fight that were still in effect, but I only felt mild bemusement. Some part of me deep down must have known all along that survival was a pretty slim thing. I had a good run, a few good moments, and some pretty sweet plans that went occasionally right.

Okay, if there were no paths to victory anymore, I’ll just move the goalposts. Given that I won’t live through this, next best thing is to leave something behind that’ll help the most people.

"Kidra, I’m not going to make it.”

"Keith, you will cut this scrapshit immediately." My sister hissed back with venom.

“Listen, I carried Father's armor up here for you. I’m not sure what the automatons do to dead bodies, but I’ll figure out some way to get you the armor somehow."

"You will hand me that armor yourself, do I make myself clear?” she said. “I will never forgive you if you don't.”

"Lord Atius," I requested, ignoring her.

"Go ahead." He said, voice calm.

"I want Teed to inherit my armor, should you find it. He's the Reacher caste navigator you talked to when coming here."

"You're contemplating handing over your armor to a Reacher?!" The shadowsong prime gasped out.

"Has your time underground flash-frozen your brain, Winterscar?” Ankah said. Oh my, that patronizing voice of confident supremacy was almost nostalgic to hear. She continued her small tirade. “Engineers have no place in the field of combat. If they were born to be warriors worthy of that armor, they wouldn’t have become Reachers in the first place. That armor needs to be given to someone deserving.”

"Teed’s not going to use it in combat you pompous snob, he'll loan it out to people more suited for it when it’s needed for combat.” I said, bracing already for the next impact. “I want my legacy to be handing relic armor to an engineering house."

The automatons slammed again into the door, throwing me back. I shoved the breaking metal table back into position before they could slip through. But the makeshift door's days were clearly numbered like mine.

Lord Atius spoke this time, and once more the comms went silent for him.

"Humans tend to stick to traditions and not always for logical reasons. There’s a reason the caste system exists on the surface and that I’ve allowed it to continue all this time. A dying wish isn’t enough justification for gifting relic armor to a lower house and the fallout that will come out of this. Give me a better reason to work with."

I thought about it as I saw the automaton line up for another run.

"Soldiers don't think like engineers do. I found secrets in these armors only an engineer can find. When Teed gets this armor, tell him to go digging. I swear he’ll find some interesting things." House insight would carry the torch I lit.

Silence. The third ram hit in the interlude, parts of the door frame itself bending now. I still managed to hold on. The fourth scout had come back, now helping its brethren with the ramming plan. They moved with bloodthirsty glee, almost like they could taste the victory. I wish I could spite them somehow on the way out, but the best I’d do is maybe kill one of them before they mobbed me.

"I’ve had engineers study the armors in the few moments they were not being used. They hadn’t found anything different.”

“I did. I don’t have time to go into details - when you get my armor, check the logs to see everything I unlocked. There’s more to these armors than we suspected.”

“That is… acceptable, on condition.” Atius said. “If these logs show something we haven’t seen before, then you will have my word that your armor will be passed down to this Teed. If not, I will assign your armor to where it can be best used."

Nobody raised any concerns, the clan lord had spoken. They all had to shut up and deal with it. I suppose that’s the best I’d get out of him.

“Thank you my lord,” I said. “Oh and Kidra, living by the Winterscar motto of never doing a good deed without attaching strings to it, tell Teed in exchange for the armor I want his house to work on my internet idea. Hold him to it. I spend half my life trying to make that work, I’d like to be vindicated at some point about it.”

"Please, just live instead Keith," My sister begged. "Run, or hide, we're going to make it. You need to buy just a few more minutes of time. We’re almost there"

I saw the fourth ram in progress. The metal box they'd used had some bent parts to it now but it was still working for its new purpose.

"Nope, out of time. Love you lots. Bribe me with a ration bar on my grave, I’ll put in a good word for you to the gods when I see them. So long as it’s a fruit flavored bar, not those weird veggie ones. Don’t make me haunt you, you know I hate doing extra work. Winterscar, out."

Journey cut the comms for me without my prompt. I liked this armor a lot, even with its bland personality it somehow knew how to play as a good sidekick for my dramatics. That, I could respect.

The fourth ram hit. This time tears started to appear on the doorframe and walls itself. They might not even need to get through the front door at this rate. The table held, somehow.

“Journey, when you meet your next user, can you give them administration access?”

“Negative.” It said.

“Scrapshit. Not even for me, old buddy?”

“Negative.”

“Fine. Can you recount all that you’ve done for me to the next user? Do it right after activation.”

“Affirmative. Logs stored and prepared for future review.”

I sighed in relief. Atius will get the logs, and then pass down the armor to Teed. He’ll figure it out from here. His House could all pour together over the last few hours of my life and retrace everything I discovered. Now, the only thing left was to figure out a plan to ensure that the armor survives and ends up in Lord Atius’s hand.

Plan C in the end wasn’t about surviving at all. It was finding a way to ensure Journey and Winterscar survived my death.

My mind flickered with possibilities. Relic armor could be re-created from even the worst damage. Maybe I could have the spirit hide in the helmet and hide those somewhere inside the house?

My last stand would be without a helmet in that case. Memory flashed through my skull of the first time I encountered this strain of automatons. With it, a crystal clear understanding of exactly how I’d die without my helmet. Slow suffocation.

Of course they would.

Father would have done it were he in my shoes. He’d have traded dying like that without hesitation if it was for the greater good.

Four automatons. Just four. If it were Father and I, we could have easily handled them together.

I glanced at his armor, layed down on the floor. He’d been a monster in combat in his own right, brutally efficient, even when missing an arm. That look of wonder when he saw his arm move again, the helmet couldn’t hide that. Lost tech was capable of amazing feats. And that had -

Oh.

Moving his arm. The suit moving itself. A chill spread through my spine.

I still had one more crazy idea to try out. “Winterscar, is it possible to load the predictive model of Father, across the entire suit?”

“Affirmative.” Father’s armor responded.

“Do it!” I bellowed, a spark of hope returning into my soul. Please, gods above. Let this work. I’ll give anything. The automatons started charging for the final ram.

“Remote override rejected. Insufficient permissions. Root level permissions required for remote override.”

No, no no no. “I need you, Winterscar. I’m going to die without your help.”

The armor stayed quiet. Its decision final.

“You spent thirty-three years at his side! It had to mean something to you. Everything he saw, you did too. Everything he did, you were there with him.”

Nothing. Father's name was just another entry on a text pad to it. The automatons were charging outside now, their footsteps loud in the air. This was going to be the last charge. I knew that deep in my bones.

“You were his whole life, if he meant anything to you, anything at all... Please, I’m begging you.”

Impact. The door buckled, the force of the hit threw me clean across. Journey protected me from the damage, shield flashing, softening the landing. I rolled to my feet, keeping my longsword in hand. Violet eyes glared at me through the dust. Hands and feet gliding over the broken remains of the barricade, ripping them out of the way.

I fucked up. The helmets hadn’t been hidden. And I hadn’t been able to convince winterscar to break rank. It was over.

Best I could do now was at least bring some of these nightmares to the grave with me. The ancient longsword rose up in my hands and flared to life.

The creatures walked in slowly, almost casually now, savering each step. Pausing at the entrance, reveling in the victory. A bridge of silence lingered between us. Despair and acceptance on my end. Glee and bloodthirst on theirs.

“Releasing safety locks."

My breath hitched and my heart froze at the voice.

"Loading predictive modeling…"

The enemy cackled, skull faces leering at me. They stalked inside, one after another, sharp hands ready to rip and tear. They were too late.

"Full cognitive engram, online.”