He sat up in the workshop, saw Solomon staring back at him, steel bar in his hands. The smaller bot’s grin was lighting up as if he was speaking, but Cricket couldn’t hear a thing. Damage reports were rolling in, tiny flashes of red in his skull region, indicating his aural systems had been totally taken offline.
Solomon had taken a fat black marker from Abraham’s drafting table, ripped one of the whiteboards off the wall. He wrote now, hand moving quicker than any human, finally holding a beautifully rendered calligraphic script up to the WarBot.
Can you hear me, old friend?
Cricket shook his head. Solomon erased his first note on the board with an old rag, quickly scribbled another.
Splendid!
If Cricket had lips, he could have kissed the effete little rustbucket. He settled for propping the bot on his shoulder instead—if he was going to rescue Abraham and escape this wretched city, it only seemed fair to bring Solomon along for the ride. With the smaller bot holding tight, Cricket grabbed hold of the hatchway lip, hauled himself up into the sunlight. The square beyond was mostly deserted, but Cricket knew exactly where the citizens would all be gathered. Nothing like a public execution to pull in the faithful.
A few scavvers and vagrants watched Cricket as he marched through the town square, Solomon on his shoulder. The guards on the gate pointed at him, a street preacher squinted up at him, Goodbook in hand. But without a backward glance at any of them, Cricket started stomping for the marketplace.
A Brother in a red cassock stepped into Cricket’s path, mouth moving, hand upheld. Presumably the man was ordering him to stop, but Cricket couldn’t obey an order he couldn’t hear. And so, he just clomped right on by, past the bell tower and double doors of the desalination plant, the WarDome posters, the murals of Saint Michael. He could see the crowd gathered farther ahead, see figures on the Brotherhood’s awful little stage. Sister Dee, pacing back and forth and spewing fire through her bullhorn. Black-clad Elite about her, faces grim. And there, hanging limply on the arms of two Disciples, blood dripping from his split brow, was Abraham.
Solomon scribbled quickly on the whiteboard, holding up another note.
“For God so loved the world, as to give his only begotten Son; that whosoever believeth in him may have life everlasting. Can I do any less? For my faith, for this city, for all of you?”
Sister Dee’s words, shouted to the adoring crowd. Cricket felt his fingers tightening into fists as he marched forward, watching the mob applaud, faces upturned in rapture. The woman’s cunning was impressive—turning her son’s impurity to her own advantage. Turning the words of the Goodbook into a weapon of hate. Turning the promise of hereafter into a tool to accrue power here on earth. It was a brilliant racket. There was no way to prove it right or wrong until it was too late.
It’s genius, really.
Cricket shook his head.
“IT DOESN’T TAKE A GENIUS TO APPEAL TO THE WORST IN PEOPLE. ALL IT TAKES IS AN ASSHOLE AND A MICROPHONE.”
He watched Sister Dee’s hands, watched the mob sway and roll, watched the pitch build higher and higher. Wondering how they’d come all this way, been through so much, and learned so little. The supposed faithful. The so-called pure. In truth, they were grubby and emaciated. Desperate and ugly. Blind and complacent. Willing to murder innocents whose only crime was being born different. All to maintain their illusion that they were somehow superior. That their hatred and fear were justified, that their cause was righteous, that this was somehow anything other than murder.
He felt Solomon’s metal fist rapping on the side of his head, saw the logika was pointing behind them, frantically waving the whiteboard.
Peril, old friend!
Turning about, Cricket saw a posse of cassock-wearing thugs on his tail. They were armed with rusty assault rifles, and from the looks of things, they were screaming at him. Turning back to the square, he could see the crowd was now looking in his direction. He guessed the city sirens had started wailing.
The Brothers and Disciples began shooting. But Cricket was a WarBot, seven meters tall, seventy tons of him, armor-plated and combat-ready. The faithful scattered as the Brothers and Disciples attacked. He unfolded the chaingun from his forearm, the missile pods from his back, sprayed a burst of bullets into the air to encourage the stragglers to get the hells out of his way. The crowd parted like a sea, eyes wide, mouths open, terrified.
Stomping through the square, Cricket reached the stage, looked down on Sister Dee. She’d taken the time to fix her skullpaint, brush her hair. Maintaining the illusion of perfection. The daughter of a saint. The paragon so devoted to the cause that she was willing to sacrifice her own son for the sake of purity.
She raised her finger at him, screaming orders he couldn’t acknowledge. And though he couldn’t hear the words, he could still speak them.
“YOU MAKE ME SICK.”
He lifted his hands, sprayed a burst of flame-retardant foam into the woman’s chest, knocking her and her thugs onto their backsides in a wash of bubbling white. The men holding Abraham were sent flying, and the big bot reached down and picked the boy up from the foam, cupping him in one massive hand to shield him from the gunfire. Solomon started banging on the side of his head. He turned on his heel, roaring at the Brotherhood and Disciples remaining in the square.
“ALL OF YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY! I DON’T WANT TO H—”
A rocket hit him in the chest, bursting on his armor and nearly toppling him backward onto the stage. Behind him, he saw a posse of Brotherhood armed with heavier weapons, accompanied by a tall, potbellied machina—the Sumo they used to guard the front gates. The pilot leveled his rocket launcher at Cricket, fired another burst. The remaining mob panicked, running in all directions. Cricket cradled Abraham to his chest and grabbed a nearby 4x4, snatching it up in one mighty fist.
Wielding the car like a shield, he fended off an RPG blast and a third volley from the Sumo’s launcher. It was an odd sensation—feeling the impact, seeing the flames, but not hearing a whisper of the explosions. The world felt bigger. Vast and hollow and ringing empty. Solomon was pounding on the side of his head, holding up a very neatly written note on his whiteboard.
Perhaps we should flee?
More Brotherhood boys and Disciples were posse’ing up now—though he couldn’t hear them, Cricket imagined alarms screaming all over the city, the bell tower in the de-sal plant tolling. The newcomers were bringing more heavy weapons, and they didn’t seem to share Cricket’s compunctions about innocents getting caught in the crossfire. He knew if he stayed here much longer, someone was going to get really hurt. And so, despite his WarBot body, all the combat training Abraham had installed in him, Cricket decided to follow Solomon’s advice and do what he did best.
He ran.
He could feel bullets spanging off his armor, Solomon clinging to his shoulder for dear existence. Still holding the 4x4 in front of him as a shield, he lowered his head and charged past the Sumo, goons scattering from his path.