Junkyard Cats - Faith Hunter Page 0,16

a break so I can hold your hand and sing ‘Kumbaya?’”

Jagger laughed, the deep tones scraping along my spine.

“You got a mouth on you. I like it. I can load, but your cat is dying.”

I spared the cat in his arms a glance. It was the gray male fighter cat. My heart sank at the same time it softened because a man carrying and caring for an injured cat was weirdly sweet. Remotely, I slapped the med-bay open. A soft pink light lit the room.

“Schedule C1 is for male cat.”

Jagger rose to the med-bay and chuckled because I had a med-bay already programed for cats. I heard the appropriate clicks, followed by the whoosh and the hum as the med-bay engaged. As I scanned for the Crawlers, I heard the snapping as Jagger began loading ammo into the depleted office weapons and removed shells that had dropped into the capture nets. Without a pause he also loaded the heaver weaponry. Maybe he really had been at the Battle of Mobile. Everything was recognizable to him because the office’s offensive and defenses arrays had been modified with Earth-based weapons. All the good stuff was hidden, though his questions about where I’d gotten all this stuff likely meant he was going to figure out way too much.

“Why aren’t they dead yet?” he asked of the small Crawlers. “You’ve expended enough ammo to take down a tank.”

Unless I could come up with a plausible lie, I’d have to tell him about the spaceship buried out back. Bugger. I rapid-fired three 9-millimeter hollow points at a Puffer. Shifted the AG Grabber to the downed Puffer and fried it. Sighted another Puffer and repeated the process, treating them to the AntiGrav energies as fast as I killed them.

Mateo said into my earbud, “Bot-A identified. It has SS armor-piercing warheads and it’s targeting the office.”

I found the screen, ID’d the aisle number, and saw it was a straight shot to the office. SS armor-piercing warheads were designed to take out spaceship armor. The shrapnel alone could be sufficient to damage even the office. I had to risk powering up the office’s defensive shields. They’d be visible from satellites and I’d be totally screwed if the Gov. found me, but screwed might be better than dead. The fact that it was still daylight and energies might be hard to detect from space convinced me. I ripped off my glove and slammed my left index finger down on the screen, activating the WIMP-particle-based shields. A faint orange glow filled the air, sparkling off the dust and weapon-fire smoke hanging there. Mateo fired. The blasts shook the raw stone under the office and up through the office floor. Jagger cursed in surprise.

“Bot-A down. Fry it,” Mateo said.

I flipped off the shields, found the disabled bot on the screens, and swung the Grabber toward it. “It doesn’t reach. And I’m blowing through my stored power like prewar Vegas. I can’t keep this up.”

“Recommendations?” Mateo asked, only a hint of snark in his voice.

“Can you pick up an engine block and use that to shove it six meters closer down Aisle Alpha One?”

“I might miss some pieces.”

Which meant Puffers and nanos all over the junkyard. I blinked away frustrated tears, thinking about hunting Puffers for months.

“We got no other options. Except to say we need a portable AG Grabber.”

“Hindsight,” he agreed, more gently. “You might be the brains to my brawn, but you aren’t perfect.”

No, I wasn’t perfect. I knew that. But with Mateo’s brain permanently scrambled, the decisions were up to me and I hadn’t thought through potential threats. Pops woulda been pissed. I should have bought a portable grabber off the black market long ago.

With one hand, Mateo picked up an old V-8, nearly two-hundred seventy kilos of rusted heavy. He carried it to the disabled Bot-A and placed it to one side. Bending over the engine, he braced his three legs and adjusted his gyro-balance to push. With the V-8 between him and the bot’s nanos—and any Puffers that were still active—he began shoving.

“You’re loaded,” Jagger said.

“Wand your hands,” I instructed him.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” I answered. Because I couldn’t exactly say that he had touched my stuff and now was likely to die.

“Holy shit. You got a warbot,” Jagger said, peering over my shoulder.

That I ignored.

Bot-B trundled into Aisle Alpha One behind Mateo.

“Behind you!” I shouted.

Mateo shifted. Lifted a lower limb. Fired. SS armor-piercing warheads took out the bot. Mateo’s cybot limb flexed with the recoil, nearly knocking