AK/DM - Forge versus the Robots

[x-forge.livejournal.com]

While the others deal with Quentin and Milan, Forge finds himself fighting his way through the Malik Dubai's maintenance staff.



Forge watched the light at the top of the access shaft grow dimmer and dimmer as he inched his way down the narrow duct. Not for the first time, he regretted not bringing at least his goggles on the trip -"No Brotherhood, no crazy zombies, no X-Men stress", he'd told Kyle.

"Note to self: thin-film night-vision display contacts," he mumbled as he slid down another few stories before using his metal limbs to slow his descent. The main connection to the municipal power grid would be accessible via the hotel's basement, as per local building code. All he had to do would be to interrupt that, throw Milan for a loop, hopefully break his connection to the Malik Dubai's systems, and then Doug and Kyle could do the rest.

Eight more stories to go...

Almost immediately after thinking that, however, Forge felt his legs kick against open air - the access shaft had suddenly widened. Caught off-balance, he scrambled for a handhold as he began to fall. His questing hands finally closed around a loose power cable and he grabbed it for dear life, slowing his descent painfully but surely.

Forge let out a sigh of relief as he released the cable, dropping the last few feet to a wet concrete floor, lit only by the sporadic light bulbs lining the damp maintenance corridor. He almost had to smile to himself. As fancy as the aboveground areas of the Malik Dubai were, automated service systems didn't require expensive rugs or chandeliers.

And to his luck, in an open server closet directly across from him, an old-school monochrome monitor blinked green. In seconds, Forge crossed the room and began typing in commands, trying to pull up schematics before Milan noticed the intrusion into the system.

"Come on, come on..." he breathed as the ASCII characters scrolled across the screen in a crude map. "Supply, maintenance, storage, show me power connections, power power power... here, that's got to be--"

The screen went black suddenly, then lit up with green lettering.

*****


I can see what you are trying to do, John Henry Forge.

I think that you and your friends are in for a not very good at all surprise. I am controlling the whole hotel. The whole hotel is run by robots. I am running the robots now.

I thought you were a very smart man when I read your book about Magneto but you are not as smart as me._


****

Forge cursed as he tried to exit to a command line, but found every method of access suddenly unavailable, all that he was left with was a blinking cursor.

ONE CHANCE LEFT, MILAN. WALK AWAY, he typed.

****

I think that you should run far away, John Henry Forge.

If you can run. Maybe I could take over your leg and make you do a funny dance, and put it on the youtubes._

****

Ignoring the screen, Forge looked down the corridor. Three hundred feet, he estimated. That's how far I have to run.

Then the sounds of hissing pistons and spinning gears began to echo off the walls as he saw what Milan had been referring to. The little room cleaning robots Forge had seen earlier were basically glorified Roombas. These, however, were apparently the industrial-strength models meant for elevator repair, mechanical grunt work, and other projects that obviously required -- hydraulic powered pincer clamps, acetylene welding torches, tungsten-carbide drill bits, infrared visual recognition systems...

Sometimes, Forge thought, he almost wished his power wouldn't give him such an insight into machinery. Especially when it was trying to kill him.

Three hundred feet to the power junction box. He counted sixty-four robots of varying construction moving in the corridor. This should be no different than a Danger Room run, Forge thought. A Danger Room run with no safeties, limited maneuverability, and poor lighting.

The horde of advancing robots had pincers designed to shear through metal pipe, cutting torches meant to melt steel, and chemical-laced burr brushes that could flay flesh as easily as scrubbing rust off of elevator rails.

He had...

Look around, use your environment, find something anything a weapon a machine a basic tool...

...a wrench.

Forge gripped the handle of the wrench, hefting it and then flipping it around to rest along his forearm in a knife-fighter's grip. This was going to be the longest three hundred feet of his life.

***

Two hundred fifty feet. Fifty-eight robots to go. At least one moderate-to-serious laceration and possibly a cracked rib, Forge surmised as he jammed the wrench into the joint of a gorilla-sized maintenance 'bot. No matter how complex the construct, he had realized, every machine could be broken down into a system of wheels, levers, and joints. Every system had its breaking point.

Proper leverage and a sufficient application of force...

Fifty-seven left, he counted as he tore the robot's massive arm from its body. Two hundred fifty feet.

***

Two hundred feet. Forty-one robots left. Definite broken rib, some first- and second-degree burns, and a gash on his forehead that was starting to affect the vision in his right eye. Forge forced himself to ignore the minor details and press on forward. Garrison had drilled into him the basics - when attacked by multiple enemies, they have to worry about hitting each other. You only have to worry about not getting hit.

A smashing claw missed Forge by inches, but shattered the housing of a torch-wielding welder-droid. Forty left. In one fluid motion, Forge jammed the wrench up under a sensor plate, throwing his weight forward and hearing a satisfying snap-hiss of short-circuiting electronics.

Thirty-nine and falling.

***

One hundred twenty-five feet to the power junction. Twenty-eight robots still inexorably moved forward on treads, wheels, or metal legs. Forge had lost the wrench about fifty steps back, burying it in the central processing core of a lifter 'bot. His own metal leg was sending sparks out with every step, servomotors protesting each time he put weight on them.

But he was far from helpless, swinging the severed arm of one of the cleaning droids like a club, smashing at the vulnerable parts of the machines that still stood in his way. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six.

A snap and cry of pain that he recognized as his own voice, as a hydraulic power arm smashed into his side, bouncing him off the wall of the corridor. He managed to get his left arm up to block the crushing blow meant to turn his head into a pasty red mess. He could smell the tang of machine oil, feel the pressure of pistons forcing metal jaws together.

He jabbed upwards with his right hand, feeling for wires and connections and pulling fiercely.

Twenty-five to go.

***

Eighty feet to the junction. Forge was limping now, his hair matted with blood and grease. The dim light from the bare bulbs showed him the silhouettes of at least a dozen robots still marching tirelessly forward.

The pain in his leg, his side, his head - instead of distracting him, it brought Forge's mind into sharper focus. The mechanical outlines of the robots Milan commanded were limned with gold and blue in his mind as he closed his eyes and lifted his left arm in one of the stances Garrison had taught him.

I don't need my eyes to take you apart, he thought as he instinctively swung his metal hand like an axe at the next robot to charge him.

And then there were eleven.

Eighty feet of tunnel remained.

***

Only ten feet left.

Forge screamed as the sole remaining robot's steel pincers closed on his ankle, pulling him down to the concrete. He swung again and again, hammering on the droid's carapace with his hands, his elbows, any scrap of discarded metal he could get his hands on. In the back of his mind, he kept track of the distance to the power box that connected the city of Dubai's power grid to the Malik Dubai hotel.

Nine feet, eight inches as he crab-walked painfully, dragging the damaged robot with him. In a rush of metal and wire, the maintenance 'bot crawled over Forge, wires spitting sparks from the severed lower half of its torso. Lacking leverage, it settled for bringing its arm down like a hammer at Forge's head, the sound of metal on metal ringing in the corridor as the young inventor barely got his left arm up in time to block the onslaught.

Looking up into the robot's emotionless viewfinder lens, Forge imagined that he could see Milan peering at him through the machine.

_You are not as smart as me_, the technopath had taunted.

Screaming defiantly, Forge struck back, rolling with the machine's blows, his own hands grabbing and searching for wires, motors, anything he could yank or disconnect or destroy. Something in his shoulder popped as he plunged one hand straight into the droid's chest. He felt one of the hydraulic pincers close on his head and start to squeeze.

Seven feet to go.

Only one left.

One. One. One.

...

Zero.