voice to his thoughts,
following them through. He cast around the lobby. "There are multiple lift shafts. One of these has to be a dedicated express elevator... Here"
He found a single set of doors off to one side, in a discreet alcove; everything about the positioning of it screamed Restricted Access.
"Use it," Namir ordered. "Well track your locators, vector to you."
"There's no call button here," he noted, finding a glass panel set in the wall. "It may need some kind of key, or maybe palm print recognition—"
A heavy, wet crunch sounded behind him, and a blade edge clanked against the marble; then Federova was sprinting to his side. In her fingers
she carried something fleshy that left a trail of red droplets all across the tiled checkerboard floor.
"Never mind," Saxon reported, as she pressed a severed hand into the panel. "Red has, uh, improvised."
The elevator gave a hollow chime and opened itself to them.
It let them out on ten, right in the line of fire from a pair of security-grade boxguards. The machines were steel cubes the size of a washing
machine, inert in a monitoring mode; but when their sensors detected something that did not match their programmed security protocols, the
mechanisms unfolded like a complex puzzle, extruding weapon muzzles and targeting scopes. They were the smaller cousins of the large,
vehicle-size versions deployed by the military or law enforcement, but they could still be lethal.
Saxon rolled out into the lavish corridor, bringing up his machine pistol as he moved. Federova launched herself from the elevator car on those
racehorse legs of hers, so fast she was almost a blur of motion. The boxguards dithered, the simple machine-brains of the basic robots hesitating
over which target to attack. Saxon used the moment to his advantage, coming up in half cover behind a cockpit leather armchair. He aimed with the Hurricane and
squeezed the trigger, marching a clip of armor-piercing rounds up the frame of the closest boxguard, ripping it open. It stumbled into a wall and
collapsed.
Federova was on top of her target, and she took off the machine's primary sensor head with a spinning crescent kick. The robot reeled, and the
dark-skinned woman rammed the muzzle of her machine pistol into a gap between its armor plates, and fired point-blank.
"Tenth floor" Saxon reported. "We're splitting up to search for the target." He looked toward Federova, who gave him a curt nod and set off
down the southern corridor.
"Copy, Gray" said Namir. "We're coming to you. Isolate and neutralize."
Saxon chose the northwest arm of the Y-shaped corridor and moved forward, low and fast, from cover to cover.
Something moved ahead of him, and he saw a squat, thickset shape roll out from a shadowed alcove. It was an ornate machine, plated with steel
and sheathed with ceramic detailing—an elegant hotel service robot modeled on some arcane, pre-twentieth-century artistic ideal of what an
automaton should be. It moved on fat gray tires, turning like a tall tank. A speaker grille presented itself to Saxon and spoke in Russian, then
Farsi and finally English. "This area is off-limits to guests," it declared. "Proceed no farther."
A fan of green laser light issued out and scanned the hallway, catching Saxon by surprise. The machine caught sight of his drawn weapon and
reacted instantly. Ceramic panels opened up to allow the vanes of a pulsed energy projector to emerge. "Mandatory warning delivered," it said.
"Deploying deterrent."
A throbbing wave-front of force hummed from the robot and blasted down the corridor. Saxon went down as the pulse threw freestanding
tables and flower vases into the air with the force of the discharge. The rush of the knockdown effect was powerful, like the undertow in an
ocean wave.
He leapt from where he had landed, firing as he went. Bullets sparked off metal and inlaid wood, marring the elegantly worked surface of the
machine. It fired again,
following them through. He cast around the lobby. "There are multiple lift shafts. One of these has to be a dedicated express elevator... Here"
He found a single set of doors off to one side, in a discreet alcove; everything about the positioning of it screamed Restricted Access.
"Use it," Namir ordered. "Well track your locators, vector to you."
"There's no call button here," he noted, finding a glass panel set in the wall. "It may need some kind of key, or maybe palm print recognition—"
A heavy, wet crunch sounded behind him, and a blade edge clanked against the marble; then Federova was sprinting to his side. In her fingers
she carried something fleshy that left a trail of red droplets all across the tiled checkerboard floor.
"Never mind," Saxon reported, as she pressed a severed hand into the panel. "Red has, uh, improvised."
The elevator gave a hollow chime and opened itself to them.
It let them out on ten, right in the line of fire from a pair of security-grade boxguards. The machines were steel cubes the size of a washing
machine, inert in a monitoring mode; but when their sensors detected something that did not match their programmed security protocols, the
mechanisms unfolded like a complex puzzle, extruding weapon muzzles and targeting scopes. They were the smaller cousins of the large,
vehicle-size versions deployed by the military or law enforcement, but they could still be lethal.
Saxon rolled out into the lavish corridor, bringing up his machine pistol as he moved. Federova launched herself from the elevator car on those
racehorse legs of hers, so fast she was almost a blur of motion. The boxguards dithered, the simple machine-brains of the basic robots hesitating
over which target to attack. Saxon used the moment to his advantage, coming up in half cover behind a cockpit leather armchair. He aimed with the Hurricane and
squeezed the trigger, marching a clip of armor-piercing rounds up the frame of the closest boxguard, ripping it open. It stumbled into a wall and
collapsed.
Federova was on top of her target, and she took off the machine's primary sensor head with a spinning crescent kick. The robot reeled, and the
dark-skinned woman rammed the muzzle of her machine pistol into a gap between its armor plates, and fired point-blank.
"Tenth floor" Saxon reported. "We're splitting up to search for the target." He looked toward Federova, who gave him a curt nod and set off
down the southern corridor.
"Copy, Gray" said Namir. "We're coming to you. Isolate and neutralize."
Saxon chose the northwest arm of the Y-shaped corridor and moved forward, low and fast, from cover to cover.
Something moved ahead of him, and he saw a squat, thickset shape roll out from a shadowed alcove. It was an ornate machine, plated with steel
and sheathed with ceramic detailing—an elegant hotel service robot modeled on some arcane, pre-twentieth-century artistic ideal of what an
automaton should be. It moved on fat gray tires, turning like a tall tank. A speaker grille presented itself to Saxon and spoke in Russian, then
Farsi and finally English. "This area is off-limits to guests," it declared. "Proceed no farther."
A fan of green laser light issued out and scanned the hallway, catching Saxon by surprise. The machine caught sight of his drawn weapon and
reacted instantly. Ceramic panels opened up to allow the vanes of a pulsed energy projector to emerge. "Mandatory warning delivered," it said.
"Deploying deterrent."
A throbbing wave-front of force hummed from the robot and blasted down the corridor. Saxon went down as the pulse threw freestanding
tables and flower vases into the air with the force of the discharge. The rush of the knockdown effect was powerful, like the undertow in an
ocean wave.
He leapt from where he had landed, firing as he went. Bullets sparked off metal and inlaid wood, marring the elegantly worked surface of the
machine. It fired again,
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