lifeguards, programmed to keep other animals from hurting visitors. Thank Christ it had enough bonus brainpower to recognize danger from other sources... and to throw itself forward to protect Chappalar and me. It banged straight into the shooter android, plastic muzzle crumpling against the killer's metal gut. Both went down in a rolling heap, making no cries as they twisted in the snow.
I snatched up Chappalar; the leaner robot might keep the android busy for a few seconds, but it wouldn't win the fight. Under its false skin, the creature was only light plastic: not made for heavy-duty grappling, just the placid herding of animals.
The killer android had to be ten times tougher than the leaner. Humanoid robots always are. They're built for rough-and-tumble in situations too risky for flesh humans... emergency rescue, for example, or the slitter-sex trade. Even robots constructed for less dangerous business can take quite a beating—otherwise, manufacturers get sued for "mental anguish" by owners who watch fragile androids fly apart at the seams. Always disconcerting when your gardener catches its arm on a rosebush, and the arm comes off.
So. Only a matter of time before the android battered the leaner to plastic pulp. By then, I wanted to be sipping mint tea in the next county.
With Chappalar over my shoulder, I ran. How long before Protection Central answered my Mayday? Scant more than thirty seconds had passed since I called in. Average response to an emergency alert was 2.38 minutes, which everyone agreed was damned good. Everyone who wasn't fleeing in panic from a killer.
But I'd try to smother my bias if ever I scrutinized a bill about police services.
Behind me the silence was broken by a ragged rupturing. I peeked back over my shoulder to see the android getting to its feet, hunks of tattered plastic in both hands. "Damn," I mumbled; the assassin had ripped the animal robot clean apart, tearing it in two.
Good thing for me the android was programmed to shoot people with acid rather than fight with bare hands. Then again... I knew how to spar mano a mano. How do you block a splash of jelly?
The robot took up the chase again—the same flat-out sprint it'd used before, legs and arms churning. Now though, its speed was hampered by snow cover; the machine's heavy footfalls punched through the crust, sinking into the soft stuff below. On park paths, that didn't make much difference: the snow was only fingers thick, scarce enough to slow the android at all. I headed for deeper drifts, someplace the robot would get held back while I gingerly skimmed across the top.
Ahead of me... Coal Smear Creek and its thin ice signs. A frozen surface maybe strong enough to hold me, but not a walking heap of scrap iron.
Behind me, the android crunched through the snow crust again and again, with a sound like boards breaking. A flesh-and-blood creature would soon get stuck, plunged into drifts as deep as its crotch; but the robot pushed forward relentlessly, gouging a trail through the waist-high snow. Not far behind, opportunist snowstriders crowded around the broken snow crust, diving for frostfly cocoons exposed by the robot's passing. The damned birds were having a merry old smorgasboard while I was running for my life.
I got halfway down the creek bank slope before the thin ice alarms noticed me. They burst into hoots and wails, crashing my ears with noise. The din drowned out any chance of hearing the android as it closed the gap between us. Forget it; I had more immediate concerns: crossing the ice without slipping or falling through thin spots.
The creek surface here was clear of snow—cheerfully shoveled by teenage skaters who probably squealed in protest if asked to shovel at home. The ice was smooth but not glare-perfect... dozens of skate blades had sliced at it, turning the surface into a snarl of crosshatches with the occasional loop or figure eight. I could shuffle-step forward without skittering out of control
I snatched up Chappalar; the leaner robot might keep the android busy for a few seconds, but it wouldn't win the fight. Under its false skin, the creature was only light plastic: not made for heavy-duty grappling, just the placid herding of animals.
The killer android had to be ten times tougher than the leaner. Humanoid robots always are. They're built for rough-and-tumble in situations too risky for flesh humans... emergency rescue, for example, or the slitter-sex trade. Even robots constructed for less dangerous business can take quite a beating—otherwise, manufacturers get sued for "mental anguish" by owners who watch fragile androids fly apart at the seams. Always disconcerting when your gardener catches its arm on a rosebush, and the arm comes off.
So. Only a matter of time before the android battered the leaner to plastic pulp. By then, I wanted to be sipping mint tea in the next county.
With Chappalar over my shoulder, I ran. How long before Protection Central answered my Mayday? Scant more than thirty seconds had passed since I called in. Average response to an emergency alert was 2.38 minutes, which everyone agreed was damned good. Everyone who wasn't fleeing in panic from a killer.
But I'd try to smother my bias if ever I scrutinized a bill about police services.
Behind me the silence was broken by a ragged rupturing. I peeked back over my shoulder to see the android getting to its feet, hunks of tattered plastic in both hands. "Damn," I mumbled; the assassin had ripped the animal robot clean apart, tearing it in two.
Good thing for me the android was programmed to shoot people with acid rather than fight with bare hands. Then again... I knew how to spar mano a mano. How do you block a splash of jelly?
The robot took up the chase again—the same flat-out sprint it'd used before, legs and arms churning. Now though, its speed was hampered by snow cover; the machine's heavy footfalls punched through the crust, sinking into the soft stuff below. On park paths, that didn't make much difference: the snow was only fingers thick, scarce enough to slow the android at all. I headed for deeper drifts, someplace the robot would get held back while I gingerly skimmed across the top.
Ahead of me... Coal Smear Creek and its thin ice signs. A frozen surface maybe strong enough to hold me, but not a walking heap of scrap iron.
Behind me, the android crunched through the snow crust again and again, with a sound like boards breaking. A flesh-and-blood creature would soon get stuck, plunged into drifts as deep as its crotch; but the robot pushed forward relentlessly, gouging a trail through the waist-high snow. Not far behind, opportunist snowstriders crowded around the broken snow crust, diving for frostfly cocoons exposed by the robot's passing. The damned birds were having a merry old smorgasboard while I was running for my life.
I got halfway down the creek bank slope before the thin ice alarms noticed me. They burst into hoots and wails, crashing my ears with noise. The din drowned out any chance of hearing the android as it closed the gap between us. Forget it; I had more immediate concerns: crossing the ice without slipping or falling through thin spots.
The creek surface here was clear of snow—cheerfully shoveled by teenage skaters who probably squealed in protest if asked to shovel at home. The ice was smooth but not glare-perfect... dozens of skate blades had sliced at it, turning the surface into a snarl of crosshatches with the occasional loop or figure eight. I could shuffle-step forward without skittering out of control
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