zone, a few feet away from the three other unconscious kids. With a flick of my steel hand, I straighten her legs and arms, trying to make her as comfortable as possible. Then Shannon, Zia, and I form an equilateral triangle around the students, each of us facing one of the Snake-bots.
The next order from Shannon comes via radio, in an encoded signal that Sigma canât overhear: Letâs do some damage, Pioneers. Fire at will .
I point my Quarter-botâs right arm at the tip of the Snake-bot that looms over the fifty-yard line. If itâs anything like the smaller Snake-bots we designed in my dadâs laboratory, its sensors will be concentrated at the tip. One well-placed shot could blind the machine.
My radar locks on to the target, and a motor inside my arm activates a compartment between my elbow joint and my steel hand. The compartmentâs lid swings open, revealing a black cylinder that I call the Needle. Itâs eighteen inches long and two inches in diameter. Inside its nose is a guidance system thatâs linked to my targeting radar, and at its tail is a solid-fuel rocket engine.
My circuits send the command: Launch! The Needleâs engine ignites, and a plume of flame shoots out of the cylinder. The missile roars out of its launch tube and careens toward the Snake-bot.
The Needle accelerates to five hundred miles per hour, but my cameras are quick enough to track it. It rises a hundred feet in less than a quarter second, arcing over the football field. The Snake-bot flails in the opposite direction, trying to dodge the missile, but the huge machine isnât nimble enough. The Needle slams into the Snake-botâs shiny tip, and the missileâs high-explosive warhead detonates.
Oh yeah! Payback time!
It looks like a fiery flower has bloomed on top of a giant metallic stalk. Smoke billows from the explosion, and bits of shrapnel ping against the bleachers on both sides of the football field. A moment later my acoustic sensor detects two more explosions, both closer to the high school. Turning my cameras in that direction, I see very similar blossoms of fire and smoke where the other two Snake-bots had been slithering toward us. Both missiles came from Zia, whoâs extending her War-botâs massive arms as if sheâs a robotic gunslinger and her rocket launchers are Colt 45 revolvers.
âYOU LIKE THAT, SIGMA?â Ziaâs voice is so loud that you could probably hear it in Connecticut. âYOU WANT SOME MORE?â
Shannonâs Diamond Girl is too small to carry missiles, but she helps out by aiming her cameras at the Snake-bots we hit. Sheâs trying to assess the damage and analyze how to press the attack. I focus my own cameras at the Snake-bot looming over the football field and watch the smoke from the explosion slowly dissipate and blow away. As it clears, though, I see that the tentacle isnât charred or mangled or gutted. Somehow the Snake-bot has sloughed off the parts that were damaged by my missile and reassembled its remaining machinery. The tentacle is several yards shorter than it was before, but it looks as good as new. And while I stare at the reconstructed thing in astonishment, the Snake-bot sweeps its shortened tip at me, lashing it like a whip.
Hundreds of tons of steel hurtle toward my Quarter-bot. Fear surges in my circuitsâ Iâm done for! Iâm toast!
Then my programmed instincts take over. The motors in my steel legs give me a tremendous boost, and I leap forward. I jump toward the thickest part of the Snake-bot, the section rising from the huge hole at the fieldâs fifty-yard line. I hit the turf at the ten-yard line, landing on my torso, and then roll toward the twenty.
At the same time, the Snake-bot slams into the place where Iâd been standing half a second ago. The tentacle gouges the turf, plunging several feet into the soil. The ground shakes like crazy, and the crash echoes across the field.
Somehow I
The next order from Shannon comes via radio, in an encoded signal that Sigma canât overhear: Letâs do some damage, Pioneers. Fire at will .
I point my Quarter-botâs right arm at the tip of the Snake-bot that looms over the fifty-yard line. If itâs anything like the smaller Snake-bots we designed in my dadâs laboratory, its sensors will be concentrated at the tip. One well-placed shot could blind the machine.
My radar locks on to the target, and a motor inside my arm activates a compartment between my elbow joint and my steel hand. The compartmentâs lid swings open, revealing a black cylinder that I call the Needle. Itâs eighteen inches long and two inches in diameter. Inside its nose is a guidance system thatâs linked to my targeting radar, and at its tail is a solid-fuel rocket engine.
My circuits send the command: Launch! The Needleâs engine ignites, and a plume of flame shoots out of the cylinder. The missile roars out of its launch tube and careens toward the Snake-bot.
The Needle accelerates to five hundred miles per hour, but my cameras are quick enough to track it. It rises a hundred feet in less than a quarter second, arcing over the football field. The Snake-bot flails in the opposite direction, trying to dodge the missile, but the huge machine isnât nimble enough. The Needle slams into the Snake-botâs shiny tip, and the missileâs high-explosive warhead detonates.
Oh yeah! Payback time!
It looks like a fiery flower has bloomed on top of a giant metallic stalk. Smoke billows from the explosion, and bits of shrapnel ping against the bleachers on both sides of the football field. A moment later my acoustic sensor detects two more explosions, both closer to the high school. Turning my cameras in that direction, I see very similar blossoms of fire and smoke where the other two Snake-bots had been slithering toward us. Both missiles came from Zia, whoâs extending her War-botâs massive arms as if sheâs a robotic gunslinger and her rocket launchers are Colt 45 revolvers.
âYOU LIKE THAT, SIGMA?â Ziaâs voice is so loud that you could probably hear it in Connecticut. âYOU WANT SOME MORE?â
Shannonâs Diamond Girl is too small to carry missiles, but she helps out by aiming her cameras at the Snake-bots we hit. Sheâs trying to assess the damage and analyze how to press the attack. I focus my own cameras at the Snake-bot looming over the football field and watch the smoke from the explosion slowly dissipate and blow away. As it clears, though, I see that the tentacle isnât charred or mangled or gutted. Somehow the Snake-bot has sloughed off the parts that were damaged by my missile and reassembled its remaining machinery. The tentacle is several yards shorter than it was before, but it looks as good as new. And while I stare at the reconstructed thing in astonishment, the Snake-bot sweeps its shortened tip at me, lashing it like a whip.
Hundreds of tons of steel hurtle toward my Quarter-bot. Fear surges in my circuitsâ Iâm done for! Iâm toast!
Then my programmed instincts take over. The motors in my steel legs give me a tremendous boost, and I leap forward. I jump toward the thickest part of the Snake-bot, the section rising from the huge hole at the fieldâs fifty-yard line. I hit the turf at the ten-yard line, landing on my torso, and then roll toward the twenty.
At the same time, the Snake-bot slams into the place where Iâd been standing half a second ago. The tentacle gouges the turf, plunging several feet into the soil. The ground shakes like crazy, and the crash echoes across the field.
Somehow I
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