DEV1AT3 (DEVIATE)

>> restart complete

>> Power: 04% capacity

>> ONLINE

>>

“Haaaa, toldja!” someone crowed. “What’d I tell ya?”

“Shuddup, Murph.”

“You shuddup, Mikey!”

“Ow, don’t touch me, dammit!”

As his optics came into focus, Cricket tried to sit up and found that he couldn’t. He was lying on his back, staring up at the rusting roof of a warehouse or garage. Data was pouring in: damage reports, combat efficiencies, percentage of munitions depleted, recharge rate. It took him a moment to remember who he was.

Where was a completely different matter.

He recalled the fight with Ezekiel. The sudden warning from his internal systems, the loss of power. After that … nothing.

“Hey!” Cricket felt a clunk on the side of his head. “You hear me?”

“YES,” the logika replied. “I HEAR YOU. BUT I CAN’T MOVE.”

A grubby face leaned into Cricket’s field of view. It was a man, freckled skin, a pair of cracked spectacles perched on a flat nose. He wore a threadbare beanie on his head, stitched with a knight’s helm logo.

“WHO ARE YOU?” the big bot asked.

The man’s grin was the color of dirt.

“I’m the guy you’re gonna make rich.”

Cricket felt hands inside his chest.

“NO, WAIT A—”

>> power disconnected

>> system offline

>> syscheck: 001 go _ _

>> restart sequence: initiated _ _

>> waiting _ _

>> 018912.y/n[corecomm:9180 diff:3sund.x]

>> persona_sys: sequencing

>> 001914.y/n[lattcomm:2872(ok) diff:neg.n/a]

>> restart complete

>> Power: 17% capacity

>> ONLINE

>>

“See, there it is,” crowed a now-familiar voice. “Said so, didn’t I?”

Cricket’s optics whirred and glowed, the room about him snapped into focus. He was somewhere different—underground, he realized. A large metal hatch was sealed over his head. The walls were concrete, lined with the shells of logika and machina, all in various states of disrepair. Tools, a loading crane, acetylene tanks … a workshop of some kind?

He could hear the dim rumble of machinery, the distant hubbub of human voices, running motors, foot traffic. His atmosphere sensors detected ethyl-4 and methane and lots of carbon monoxide.

A city?

Three figures stood in front of him. The first was Murph, the dustneck scavver who woke him up, then pulled his plug. Beside him stood a shorter, dirtier version of Murph that Cricket guessed was Mikey. He looked similar enough that he might be Murph’s brother. Or cousin. Maybe both.

Beside them, sizing Cricket up through a pair of whirring tech-goggles, was a boy, maybe nineteen years old. He wore big steel-capped boots and dirty coveralls, dark hair slicked back from his forehead. A laden tool belt was wrapped around his waist, his hands smudged with grease.

“WHERE AM I?” Cricket asked. “WHERE’S LEMON? WHER—”

“Hey, shuddup!” Murph hollered, kicking Cricket’s foot. “You only speak when you’re spoken to, acknowledge!”

The big bot fixed the little man in his glowing blue stare. He realized these dustnecks must have salvaged him from where he’d collapsed. Somehow hauled him to this new city while he was powered down. He had no idea where he could be, how long he’d been offline. But these scavvers might’ve hurt Lemon or Ezekiel in the process of jacking him. His friends might be in danger. Cricket’s titanic fists curled at the thought, a thrill of robotic rage coursing through him. Murph’s eyes widened and he took one step back.

But despite the anger, the thought of what might have happened or be happening to Lemon because these dustnecks stole him, Cricket was still a logika. The Three Laws were hard-coded into his head. Including good old number two.

A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

And so …

“ACKNOWLEDGED,” he finally growled.

The boy in the coveralls stepped closer, seemingly unafraid of the tremor in Crick’s voice. He peered up to the big bot’s glowing eyes, his goggles whirring and shifting focus as he took the logika’s measure.

“How much you want for it?” he murmured, turning to the scavvers.

The thieves whispered between themselves, quickly fell to cussing and shoving. Murph finally punched Mikey’s arm and hissed for silence.

“Three thousand liters,” he declared.

The boy tilted his head. “You know Mother will never agree to that, Murphy. Those combat drones you brought us last month all blew their gyroscopes after a few days. She doesn’t have much faith in your wares.”

“Yeah, but look!” Murph kicked Cricket’s foot again. “Hasn’t hardly got a scratch on it! I’ve never seen a model like this! It’s got some hard bark on it, Abe!”