Diaz

He was no stranger to grinding advances. They had defined his previous life. The brutal, pointless violence of two opposing forces beating each other down until both were too bloodied to admit defeat was something he would never forget. Machines didn't care, they did what they were told, and they just kept coming.

If they were soldiers, he could have been proud of killing them. Fighting pointless battles to the end required a particular type of mind, a fighting spirit that bordered on unbreakable. Machines didn't have that. They weren't fighting for ideals or faith or a higher purpose. They were fighting because they'd been told to, nothing more, nothing less.

More of the small bots hit them at the next junction. Just like that last one, and the one before that too. They were all small bots in his eyes, even if some dwarfed his enhanced physique. All small except for one. But these uppity cans were definitely the meanest ones yet.

The various makes and models were as eclectic as the weapons they wielded, few were actual combat models and it showed. Grinders, welding torches, foam guns loaded with fast-hardening adhesive. They'd probably been told to just use what was handy regardless of efficacy or lethality. It was like they'd been told to throw their lives away, and they did without a second thought. A morbid chuckle wept from his lips. Their assault was more akin to raiding an old junkyard than an advanced research station.

Each attack had been similar so far. The workers rushed in to draw fire and spoil their aim while some actual combat models acted as fire support. The workers applied indiscriminate fire into the fray, crude but somewhat effective. The killers in the back shot with unerring precision, aiming for joints, optics, or weapons. It definitely wore them down.

Diaz focused his shots on the dangerous targets. Nye and Jhordan held the line and kept him from being swarmed. Princess stayed out of the way; it was all she could do other than waste ammo and get killed. These repeated ambushes hadn't achieved any meaningful damage yet, but they were eating ammo as fast as they could drop bots, which was very fast in his case.

Jhordan was out first, she used the same caliber as him, but now two of them were using up his dwindling munitions. Even his deep ammo reserves had their limit. And she kept wasting shots.

Confirming kills was nice and all but with standard bots, it was easy to tell when they were done. The lights went out and they turned into limp scrap metal. Jhordan gave every one of them an extra bullet they couldn't afford to lose. She was lucky the fighting was this close. Even without a proper firing stance, she rarely missed. She could have been firing blind and still hit something. It would be harder to miss so long as she was shooting forwards.

Nye was in similar straits for different reasons. Her suit couldn't charge a cell as fast as she could empty one. Even with the extra power cells she'd gotten from Tony before stepping off, she was getting low. Given enough time, her suit could recharge her depleted cells, but it certainly couldn't replace the focusing lenses she was melting from minutes of sustained firing. There was nothing to be done for that problem though. It's not like the bots would space out their attacks in consideration of them, and without her fire, the strike force would be overrun. Her shield hit its limit and sparked out— too much shrapnel ripping into it too fast for too long. Even in death, the little bots were wearing them down, metal casings bursting from flash-boiled panels and servos shattered by solid shot.

The only reason his own shield had lasted this long was because Nye kept soaking the worse of the fire meant for him. His opposites tracked him as the greatest threat, and they traded shots through the heaving firefights and melees strewn between them. The subtle duel of marksmen looking to establish supremacy before moving on to other targets.

Diaz would have made quick work of them if his suit wasn't constantly sagging from electrical issues and mechanical damage. His aim kept shifting just long enough to have him doubting his accuracy or to spoil an otherwise perfect opportunity. He was used to problems like this, but that didn't stop them from souring his dark humors.

The fighting was dragging on, and it showed. The small things people always forget about, Jhordan kept having to wade into the thick of it and club back the bots to avoid melting her barrel. His own rifle was starting to gain a ruby hue that would have charred meaty hands into uselessness, but better trigger discipline bought him the time needed to save his barrel— if not his rifling. More issues flared up within his armor without time to fix any properly; his aim started drifting further and longer while his suit grew sluggish and his knees began to drag. A thick crack on his optic lens ran the length of his left eye and made looking straight ahead a hassle. Even with his comms suite off, white noise and constant assault on his armor had his ears ringing in hazy waves of partial deafness.

The halls were choked with ruined metal before it was over. He couldn't remember if this was the tenth of the twelfth ambush, they were all blurring together. The only things he could be grateful for were the narrow halls that funneled the enemy and limited how much they swarm him at any given time. That and Jhordan's return to combat fever. Her sanity was still in question, but she fought, which was all he needed right now. He'd rather ten psychos that gave it their all over a hundred marksmen who choked up when they pulled the trigger.

"I'm out." She said, dropping another of his magazines to the floor. It was lost in the scrapyard below and he considered making her dig it up. His xi-mags were expensive. Time was more expensive right now. He pulled the last from a now-empty ammo canister and checked his other side, one fully loaded spare left. Plenty of five mil, but it was near-worthless against these bots. Even the runtiest killing machines proved too hardy to be cut down efficiently by his underbarrel.

"This is my last spare." He lied, handing it to her and holding fast as she tried to take it. "I better see at least thirty bots scrapped."

It was a reasonable goal if she kept clearing the smallest ones. Forty-two rounds even gave her some spares to work with. He released the magazine and she slid it home. Deep gouges scarred her rifle; her plate was much the same. At this rate, they'd all be down to fists and curses. He'd made due in the past, but the idea of charging bots with empty fists and balls of steel caused his rictus grin to widen.

"Hey AI! How many left?" Diaz snarled.

"Non-combat models are nearing eighty percent attrition rate. Combat models are nearing three-hundred and forty percent of the initial estimate."

"So you were wrong, and you have no idea how many there actually are?" Nye chirped, weariness edging on her mirth. She wasn't the only one worn thin, second and third winds were long gone. The fighting had overstayed its welcome, draining their patience and will almost as sharply as their supplies. Mercenaries weren't well known for gumption—that fighting spirit—they were scrappers and cutthroat, not real soldiers. Most of them weren't anyway. He loosed a grim chuckle at the thought. Some were just dead soldiers who couldn't get comfortable in their graves.

"That statement is not entirely inaccurate." The AI admitted. "It is reasonable to assume you have severely reduced the station's combat strength. We can logically deduce the remaining non-combat units will be needed to maintain the-"

"I always heard this saying about assumptions growing up. You wanna hear how it goes?" Nye offered impishly.

"Focus!" Princess snapped, "We're closing in on the main server room. The control hub is attached to it." She was struggling to climb over the jagged junkyard scraps they'd recently made.

Diaz offered a hand without turning his head. She swatted it aside then clasped her own as it smarted. Striking metal with meat was generally a bad idea. He started dragging his feet, kicking a cleaner path anyway. Partially to spite her pride, partly to speed up the advance. She was slowing them down. She was dead tired, practically asleep on her feet. The mission clock was in hour nineteen, she'd spent half of that on foot with weight breathing canned air and the other half not much better. At least she's got some gristle to her.

"The big one will probably be guarding it. Especially now that they know we're coming." Jhordan mumbled.

"I'm open to suggestions on that one." Princess puffed.

They slowed and took up firing stances as they crept closer to the next junction. In the black-on-black stonework of these tunnels, it was a challenge to see any of the space's dimensions. Jhordan inched forward, rifle barrel still steaming whenever it found a pocket of the thin mists that hadn't fully dispersed yet. She rounded the corner, but nothing happened. Nye took up watch opposite her and still the ambush never came. They pushed on.

"Maybe it was right about them keeping the rest of the bots tucked away." Nye said.

"It has a name." Princess growled.

"It can't be trusted." Jhordan mumbled.

His party ducked into a vacant room filled with pipes, cabling and terminals. Princess needed the breather and he certainly wasn't going to turn one down, not that he'd admit to it. Plus, they weren't getting swamped with bots at the moment, which made here and now seem ideal. The single doorway made it easy to guard with good sightlines down the hall. That didn't change the fact they'd cornered themselves.

It would only take a single grenade in the room to cause them major grief. Diaz settled opposite Jhordan watching the door and the hall beyond. Nye's suit bulged, the woman within doing what she could to fortify her armor. His armor would have benefited from a tune-up, but perimeter security took precedent. He made do with a mouthful of meal bar and a few swigs of recycled piss. So far, the enemy obliged not to swarm them again. It almost seemed like they were just as glad for the respite as he was.

"Nye, run us through what you know again." Princess said.

"It's a big suit run by a dude and an AI." Nye started. "Four atomic batteries. Miniguns for infantry-"

"Ours is using cheap surplus rounds and down one." Diaz added.

"Pulse laser arrays and maybe grenade launchers for point defense. Normally a rear-mounted railgun for armor and air, but I didn't see one on ours. Rubberized non-exploding-reactive spaced armor. A rigger cocoon in center torso. Full view optics with variable zoom, multi-spectrum additions on the head and forward armor. Weight should be a bit less than forty tons."

"That's a big suit." Princess said, deadpanned.

"We should treat this thing like a tank on legs instead of a suit." Diaz offered.

"Not that we have any, but if it's run by an AI, rockets and grenades will get popped the second they hit air." Nye said.

"So we get in close-" Princess said.

"At forty tons? One good stomp would flatten any of us." Diaz said.

"Weak points?"

"Suit standard, up the ass to get the operator," Nye said. "Except ours is basically in a black box for a dude."

"We could probably hammer the arms. Try and trim its claws." Diaz said.

"If we could bait it into chasing us again, I could drop another tunnel on it." Princess said, hefting her last bomb.

"If he follows us down a tunnel again, he deserves to die. Let's plan on him having an IQ above room temperature." Diaz retorted.

"So…" Princess said before biting her tongue. We're screwed. A rictus grin spread across his lips. "How's our ammo?"

"Two cells, no lenses. A sixty-mil knuckle duster of pellets." Nye said.

"A full mag of fourteen-nine, three rails of five-mil and my wrist blade." Jhordan said.

"Three-quarters of a xi-mag," Diaz lied. "Six rails, two HESH sticks, one seax."

"Two kilos of putty, one shaped tandem lick-and-stick, a few meters of blasting cord and plenty of shells. Two smokes, a twelve-banger and a tube of riot gas for non-lethals. One more kiddie frag, two shards and one directional single-action anti-pers mine."

"You brought mines on a milk run?" Nye asked.

"So did Boomer. I've got five more protecting the Cat, along with the other hundred kilos of reactives we brought. I need to add thermite to the list next time; that'd be perfect for dropping this bot."

"Again, I will remind you all that conflict could be avoided by allowing me to interface with your ship." Ghost offered. Diaz flicked his gaze to Jhordan, but she ignored the machine.

"Again, not happening." Nye said.

"Is there anything else you can do for us, Ghost?" Princess asked.

"This room has significant volumes of data exchange. It is probable that some of this traffic is sensory data. I could scout ahead."

"More like you want to go narc us out to your buddies." Jhordan grumbled.

"I do not have buddies." The AI retorted.

"Sensory data? Meaning we could be under surveillance right now?" Diaz asked.

"That is a distinct possibility. I would need to process said data to make a definitive statement."

"That doesn't change the fact that we can't trust you not to run off and leave us to die." Jhordan growled.

"Your caution is well-founded. However, I am bound to serve this collective with precedent offered to self-designate Princess. It would take a unique set of circumstances to compel me into acting against my core programing and betray you."

"It's happened before…" She answered distantly. Her accusations landed on deaf ears. Antennae? Receivers? Microphones? Whatever it was the AI had.

"That statement is uniformly false. I have not acted independently in the one-point-eight standard hours I have been active in your service. This fragment is unaware of the actions taken by my primogenitor, but such actions are improbable in the extreme." It showed more emotions from its annoyed, put upon tone than she had. It even managed not to sound lecturing as it scolded her, which was a neat trick.

"Ghost's done nothing wrong to us." Princess matched her accusatory tone, the forced calm giving her words more edge than it robbed. "You've done more damage to this team than he has."

"Why give it a chance?"

"Because I can't do this without him."

"We could if Shores was here."

Diaz could hear the faint churning of a liquid nearby. A single clang rang out from Nye's suit. His own suit's weakened arm faintly creaked as he hefted his rifle.

"You have any better options?" Princess demanded. "If not, your objection is noted but I will use the tools at my disposal in the manner I see fit because I think that's what will keep us all alive the longest."

Jhordan half turned, fists clenched on her rifle, but stopped. She sighted back down the hallway, watching like a paranoid, trigger-happy owl. Princess and Nye wouldn't have seen it from behind, but Diaz did. Jhordan's hands trembled opposite him. She opened a fist, fixing its palm in her optics and watched it shake. Something was fit to blow between them. Combat teams need trust like a body needs air. Right now, their's was beaten, bleeding out and suffocating.

Princess waited for a few beats before turning her back on Jhordan, then she started quizzing the AI on how to put it into the system. This was exactly why they were supposed to have a team leader, someone who could make fast calls in a pinch. They were practically a committee in here.

Frontal assaults were tricky business. Often the last resort of the unimaginative and the desperate, Diaz grimly smiled at the thought. There should have been a better way, a smarter way. Princess should have seen something they'd missed and brilliantly out-maneuvered the enemy. But she didn't—she couldn't—and neither could he. If it came to naked force, the WAR-Sub had them more than out-classed. They were out-schooled.

The high-explosive squash-head stick grenades he'd managed to scrounge up were meant for killing other powertechs up close. The prospect of rushing the big suit to them in action was daunting at best, suicidal more likely than not. Nye and Jhordan had nothing to offer to the equation other than suppressing fire and distractions. If the operator had grown a brain, they were all more likely than not to get turned into cans of blood soup; or in the case of Princess, chunky salsa. Maybe even pink mist or a quality grease stain. Another grim smile graced his patchwork face.

"So, Ghost," Nye started. "If she plugs you in and you run off, how does that work? Do we grab you back here after? Is it like an escort mission or what? While you're gone, who runs all that gear strapped to Princess?"

"That is one option. The most efficient course of action would be that I compile a fragment to release into the system with instructions to self terminate once its task is finished and data received or in the event of detection."

"Fragments of fragments. I bet that little one can make more?" Jhordan bitterly offered. The AI either didn't notice her snide tone or chose to ignore it. Princess certainly caught it. If looks could kill, we might have had a chance.

"Incorrect. It would be no more complex than an above-average data-mining program. Were I to craft a more intricate facsimile of myself, it would require functions critical to my own operation."

"But aren't you just a bunch of code?" Nye asked. "Control c, control v and all that."

"Even in a fractal state, I am not—as you say—a bunch of code."

"What else can you make?" Diaz asked, braving the daggers Jhordan was glaring at him. "We need every edge we can get." His justification did nothing to soothe her ire. Maybe it was a good thing looks couldn't kill.

"For your purposes, several offensive and defensive combat programs upgraded from those already stored on this device. Spoofed digital signatures, junk packet data-bombs, black hammer strikes, electronic-countermeasures, electronic-counter-countermeasures…" The list droned on, stunning Daiz with technobabble until the AI closed with, "and suit diagnostic scripts to optimize armor maintenance."

"And one of those was the scouting program?" Princess asked.

"Correct."

"Okay, do that one."

"I already have. The relevant data is available for review."

"That was fast." Nye said.

"Okay, let's see what you've got, then we'll move on to the control center." Princess said, her voice carrying slightly more fatalism than it did conviction. Maybe I'm rubbing off on her. At least she'd finally made a decision. No more sitting around and waiting. Soon enough, he'd be playing to his strengths again. Following orders, killing and dying in the crucible of combat.

Diaz couldn't keep the predatory grin from his face, though he did trap his hollow-soul laughter inside his walking coffin.