The chamber was big, maybe forty feet across, with a sunken center where command stations formed a horseshoe around multiple displays. The screens were dark, but the walls were covered with printed maps, radiation zone markings, and handwritten notes that got increasingly desperate toward the end.

  One note, scrawled in red marker: “THEY’RE IN THE VENTS.”

  Another: “Day 6—Ploor, Nix, Fairville are all dark.”

  And finally, in shaky handwriting: “Tell Lissa I’m sorry.”

  Philip moved toward a console on the far side, maybe trying to look casual about it. “I’ll see if any of these systems still have power. Perhaps we can find some anti-radiation treatments.”

  I don’t know that I was listening closely. I felt worse than ever, and something about the “Commandant’s Office” printed on a partly ajar door pulled me in that direction.

  I pushed the door open to find Commandant Thom at his desk, head down on his arms as if he’d laid it down for just a moment.

  What caught my eye was the display case on the wall behind him.

  Inside, mounted on black velvet, was a weapon I recognized from my time on Kaldar. It was a baan—a force blade generator about the length of my forearm. Its hilt was wrapped in black leather with silver trim. The activation stud was exactly where it should be.

  Next to it, a small plaque read:

  “Presented to Commandant Thom for Extraordinary Valor in the Defense of Ploor. When ammunition failed, courage did not.”

  There was a photo too—Commandant Thom, younger, maybe a Group Leader then, standing in rubble with the activated baan glowing blue in his hand, surrounded by dead walkers. He must have fought them hand-to-hand when the bullets ran out.

  I opened the case. For its size, the baan was heavy like I remembered from Kaldar. I pressed the activation stud.

  The blade sprang to life with a sharp hum—a bar of contained blue energy about three feet long. The air around it seemed to vibrate. I gave it a test swing, and it left a trail of light in the air. The weight was all in the hilt—the energy blade itself was massless, which would take getting used to.

  I deactivated it and clipped it to my belt, opposite the serrated knife I’d taken from the Tog. “Thank you, Commandant,” I said to the corpse. “I’ll put it to good use.”

  Then I heard Philip’s voice from the main room, speaking rapidly but quietly. It wasn’t English or the language of Tellus; it was a monkey-fast chatter, what the Institute hominids likely used among themselves.

  I turned fast and moved silently, staying out of sight. Philip was at a console that was very much powered up, its screen glowing. He was speaking into what looked like a headset he’d plugged into the system.

  The words were foreign, but I caught names I recognized: “Bayard” and “Traveler.” His tone was urgent, excited. Then I heard him say something that sounded like coordinates—followed by what was unmistakably “radiation sick” in English before switching back to his language.

  I’d heard enough.

  I crossed the command center in five quick strides. Philip was so focused on his transmission that he didn’t hear me until the baan’s activation hum filled the room. He spun around to find the energy blade an inch from his throat.

  “Is this you asking for extraction?” I said. “Or are you asking for reinforcements? Either way, tell them not to come.”

  His eyes went wide. “Bayard! This isn’t what it looks like—”

  “It looks like you’re calling in your Institute buddies. Probably telling them I’m weak from radiation, easy to contain.”

  “No! I was trying to—”

  I moved the blade closer. The energy field made his suit’s collar start to smoke.

  He swallowed hard. “All right, yes, I was calling for extraction. But not to capture you. I’m trying to save us both. You’re dying, Bayard. The radiation—you need treatment only the Institute can provide.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Look at yourself. Your skin is flushed, you’re sweating, and you keep blinking as if you’re dizzy. How long before you start vomiting? How long before your organs shut down and you die?”

  “Long enough to get to the obelisk,” I said.

  “The obelisk doesn’t work!” Philip shouted. “Why do you think the Togs call it the Dead Tower? It’s been inactive for decades, maybe centuries.”

  Despite the heat on my face, I kept the blade steady. “Then we’ll use your Institute portal.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to arrange,” he said. “But they need coordinates, time to prepare—”

  “Who were you really talking to, Philip?”

  He hesitated just a fraction too long.

  I used the baan’s blue energy blade to slice through a desk. The unit hummed louder, and I felt powerful.

  “I spoke to the recovery team from the orbital sphere,” he said quickly. “They’ve been monitoring the area. They’re in high orbit, cloaked. They could have a shuttle here in twenty minutes.”

  “To rescue us or to bag me?” I asked.

  “Does it matter if it saves your life?”

  I was about to answer with the baan when we both heard the skittering sound of metal on concrete. That had to be spider scouts—multiple ones, approaching the blast door we’d conveniently left open.

  “You idiot, you transmitted on an open channel,” I said, understanding flooding through me. “The Synthetic Minds must monitor all transmissions.”

  Philip’s face went slack. “I encrypted it—”

  “They’re AIs, Philip. You think they can’t break your lousy encryption scheme?”

  The skittering sounds got louder and a whole lot closer.

  I lowered the baan but kept it activated. “Call back your people. Tell them to abort.”

  “I can’t. It’s a one-way protocol for security—”

  The first spider scout appeared in the doorway, its sensor cluster focusing on us. It chittered something in a language that was all static and tones.

  Then, from speakers around the room that shouldn’t have worked, a synthesized voice spoke: “Biological entities have been identified. One is an Institute Homo habilis. The other is an unmodified human. He is undoubtedly a Traveler. You will both submit for processing.”

  Philip grabbed my arm. “We need to run, Bayard!”

  For once, I agreed with him. But that meant we had to go through the blast door where the spider scouts stood.

  -23-

  Spider scouts poured through the doorway, their sensor clusters sweeping red beams across the room. Behind them, I could hear the heavier walkers approaching, their metal feet ringing against the corridor floor.

  Philip was frantically typing at his console. “I’m trying to lock down the systems, prevent them from accessing—”

  A scout skittered across the room and lunged at him.

  I’d already unlimbered and set down the pulse rifle. It was too big and bulky for this, and I was afraid it might fry us in its backwash. But I moved fast and got to the scout before it reached Philip and swept the activated baan in a horizontal arc.

  The energy blade passed through the machine like it wasn’t there. The scout fell in two pieces, sparking and twitching. The cut edges glowed orange, melted smooth.

  I shouted, as the baan had gone through it like warm butter.

  Three more scouts rushed me, maybe trying to overwhelm me through numbers. I brought the blade up in a diagonal slash, catching the first one center mass. It split apart in a shower of sparks. The second tried to dodge, but the energy blade was nearly weightless—I could change direction like a badminton racket. I flicked my wrist, took off two of its legs, then brought the blade down through its sensor cluster.

  The third one got close enough, its metal pincers snapping inches from my face. I stumbled backward, that wave of dizziness from the radiation hitting at the worst possible moment. The scout pressed its advantage, and I barely got the baan up in time. The blade sheared through its attacking mandibles, but another pincer raked across my ribs. Luckily, the leather jacket took the hit.

  “Bayard!” Philip shouted. He’d found a service pistol somewhere, probably from one of the corpses, and was firing at the spider scouts. The bullets bounced off their armor, but it distracted them.

  Then a tall walker ducked through the doorway, having to bend its seven-foot frame to fit. Its arm-mounted saw was already spinning, and its energy weapon was charging with a high whine.

  I rolled behind a console as a pulse bolt scorched the air where I’d been standing. The metal desk began to glow where the pulse hit it. These things carried serious firepower.

  More scouts were flooding in, spreading out to flank us. The synthesized voice spoke again from the room’s speakers: “Resistance is illogical. You must submit to processing.”

  I rushed the walker, knowing the buzz saw could kill me fast, but I had to win before they overwhelmed us or I fainted from my fever.

  I’d figured out the pulse rifle needed two seconds to charge between shots. Now I strained to reach the killing machine as it aimed. I brought the baan up in a brutal thrust. The blade punched through the walker’s chest armor. I dragged the blade upward, opening its torso like a can opener.

  The walker staggered but didn’t fall. Its saw-arm swung at my head. I ducked, feeling the blade pass through my hair, then spun and took the arm off at the shoulder. The walker finally toppled, spraying hydraulic fluid that smelled like burnt oil.

  “Bayard!” Philip’s voice was pure panic. “I think I just made things worse!”

  I turned to see every screen in the command center lighting up. Philip had triggered something—security protocols, system resets, who knew what. Red lights flashed, and a klaxon wailed.

  “WARNING,” a different automated voice announced. “UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS DETECTED. INITIATING FACILITY LOCKDOWN.”

  I could hear other doors closing throughout the facility. I could hear them slamming shut in sequence, getting closer. But more immediately, I could see dozens of red sensor eyes from the ceiling lighting up in the corridor.

  A second walker entered.

  I was breathing hard, sweat burning my eyes, and my muscles felt limp.

  I backed up and figured it was time to use brains instead of just brawn. Besides, the walker’s pulse rifle had shown me I could fire in here without backwashing myself.

  I clicked off the baan and set it down, and grabbed the pulse rifle. I fired at the walker’s single lens and shifted immediately.

  I hit the sensor eye.

  The walker stumbled and fired, hitting a spider scout instead.

  At that point, the Togs arrived.

  They came through a ventilation grate in the ceiling—five of them dropping into the command center with savage war cries. These weren’t like the group from the rooftop. They wore better armor, decorated with robot parts as trophies I think. The lead Tog had metal teeth, and they gleamed as he grinned at the chaos.

  “Machines!” he roared in their guttural language. “Kill the machines!”

  The Togs opened fire with their scavenged pulse rifles, forming a devastating crossfire. Spider scouts exploded under the barrage. The blind walker took multiple hits and collapsed.

  But the interesting part was their reaction to me.

  I’d dropped the pulse rifle and picked up the baan, flicking it on again.

  Now, one Tog pointed at the glowing baan and shouted something that sounded like recognition, maybe even reverence. The word spread among them: “He is a plasma-singer! He wields a plasma-singer!”

  Then the battle continued as the robots tried to process everyone. The Togs shot at anything mechanical. I fought alongside them, keeping Philip behind me, even though part of me wanted to feed him to the scouts.

  A scout got past my guard, leaping for Philip. The little hominid shrieked and fell backward. I bisected the scout mid-leap, but two more rushed in. A Tog appeared beside me with two serrated hatchets in his hands. We stood back-to-back, chopping anything that got close.

  I have to tell you, the baan was devastating. Each swing left trails of light, and nothing could withstand its edge. I took legs off scouts, cut rifles in half, carved through armor plating. But I was slowing down. The radiation sickness made my vision blur. Twice I nearly dropped the weapon when waves of nausea hit me.

  The remaining robots retreated, scouts providing cover for damaged walkers.

  The lead Tog raised his pulse rifle and howled in victory. The others joined in, the sound echoing through the command center. In the sudden quiet afterward, we stood among the wreckage of at least twenty destroyed machines.

  The Tog leader turned to me. He was studying the baan, which I kept activated and ready. Then his eyes went to Philip, narrowing with suspicion.

  “You fight the Atomic Brains,” he said. “You carry a plasma-singer. But you travel with one of the small-kinds. The small-kinds work with machines sometimes. They watch and whisper.”

  “He’s my prisoner,” I said.

  “I am not!” Philip protested. “I’m—”

  I pointed the baan at him, and he shut up.

  The Tog leader laughed, a harsh bark. Then he eyed me more closely. “You are sick-touched. The glow-death is in you. I can smell it.”

  “I’ve felt better,” I said.

  “You fight well for a dying man. I am Gorthak, War Chief of the Deep Warren.”

  “Jake Bayard,” I said.

  Gorthak’s eyes widened. “Bayard? The sky-voice spoke of a Bayard. The small-kinds in the sky sphere transmitted about you before the walkers shot them down.”

  I glanced at Philip, who was trying to look innocent.

  “Do you know of the Cleansing Waters?” Gorthak asked me.

  I faced him and shook my head.

  “You will die without them. But they are precious, not for outsiders.” He looked at the destroyed robots, then at the baan in my hand. “But you carry plasma-singer and kill machines. This is good. Maybe worth can be proven.”

  “What kind of worth do you need to see?” I asked.

  Gorthak grinned, his metal teeth clicking. “We have prisoner, she-who-speaks-to-machines. She knows the old ways, can make dead systems live. But she refuses to help. Maybe she help you, since you are not Tog but more like her. If you convince her, you get Cleansing Waters as a reward.”

  “And if I can’t convince her?” I asked.

  “Then you die of glow-death, and we take plasma-singer from your corpse.”

  Philip tugged at my arm. “Bayard, the Institute portal—”

  “Shut up,” I told him, then turned to Gorthak. “Take us to her.”

  Gorthak nodded and barked orders to his warriors. They began stripping useful parts from the destroyed robots, doing so with practiced efficiency.

  As we prepared to leave the command center, I noticed Philip trying to pocket something from the console: a data chip or communication device. I grabbed his wrist, the one he’d claimed before that I’d broken. Guess what? It wasn’t.

  “Whatever double-cross you’re planning, don’t try it,” I said quietly.

  “I’m trying to save both our lives,” he hissed back.

  “Your way of saving usually involves selling someone out.”

  Before he could respond, Gorthak said, “We go now. More machines will come. They always come.”

  We followed the Togs out through a hole they’d blown in the wall earlier, leaving the command center to its silent corpses and broken machines. The blast door had closed after the machines that kept it open left.

  My skin burned, my muscles ached, and I could feel my body shutting down.

  But I had a baan now—and, it would seem, a chance at survival. The question was whether I’d live long enough to use either.

  -24-

  Gorthak’s warriors formed a protective circle around us as we returned to the surface and picked our way through the ruins. I noticed that the Togs kept stealing glances at the baan on my belt.

  One of them, younger than the others, with small tusks, kept whispering “plasma-singer” like a prayer.

  It gave me the creeps. Was he calling me the plasma-singer or the weapon?

  “Your baan,” Gorthak said, perhaps noticing my unease. “We have not seen one for many years. The last warrior who carried one died fighting the Steel Mother.”

  “What’s the Steel Mother?” I asked, even though my throat felt raw.

  “She is the greatest of the Atomic Brains. She commands from the deep places. Some say she was the first machine to wake and kill her makers.”

  Philip, walking beside me, with two Tog rifles pointed at his back, couldn’t help himself. “It’s interesting you’ve given at least one of the Synthetic Minds a name. Perhaps as importantly, how do you know she started the assault? Why, that evidence would have to be over three hundred years old.”

  “Silence, small-kind,” Gorthak said. “Your yapping hurts my ears.” The big Tog used a forearm to wipe his mouth as he shook his head. “You blather endlessly as if you didn’t know these things. Oh, yes, we know that you watch and whisper to machines. Even more, we know that you make evil bargains with them.”

  “That’s completely untrue,” Philip said. “The Institute merely observes and—”

  “I said silence.” Gorthak’s hand went to his blade. “Only reason you live is the baan warrior vouches for you. But that can change.”

  Philip shut up, but I could practically hear his brain working as he calculated angles and schemes. It was interesting that the Togs let him wear his EVA suit. Even without the helmet, the suit was better than nothing. Was that why Philip hadn’t shown any signs of radiation sickness like me? Or were these hairy plotters more immune to radiation?

  Maybe a half hour later, we descended through a blown-open subway entrance. The stairs were slick with some kind of phosphorescent algae that provided dim green light. The Togs moved over the stairs as if they’d done this a thousand times. Was this their home, or just it an outpost? How could anyone live in a place that received these thermonuclear assaults?