Kira Dallas's Arc

Chapter 8 of 13

The living quarters were clear. Kira led her team through the sealed door into engineering. The air changed again, metallic and cold. Coolant lines ran overhead, still wet, still humming. She kept her light low and her rifle up. "Slow," she said. "The pipes are live. One burst and we cook." Logan moved past her, reading the room by what the machines lacked. He pointed to a dead junction box. "That's been off for centuries," he said. "But something woke the rest of it up." They worked the room in careful sweeps. Russel bagged tool kits and sealed cable spools. Kira pulled a weathered report console from a workbench and wiped the grime off its screen. Files scrolled past. Vault system logs, restoration records, a long gap of silence before the power returned. She logged what she could and sealed the data card in her pack. Reliable gear. Verified records. This was the kind of find that fed her real job. Sinclair arrived from the security corridor, radio pack heavy on his back. He was Red Hills Traders, their recon man, and he spoke before he reached her. "Friend, we have a problem up the hall." He crouched by a second console, the rugged one packed with switches and shutdown controls. His claws moved over the panel. "Turret control. Security lockout. There's a robot bay behind that wall, and it's showing power." He tapped a red indicator. "Three units, maybe four. Dormant now. The moment we trip the door, they wake." Kira set her jaw. "Then we don't trip the door blind." She looked at Logan. "EMP grenades. We agreed on the method. Disable them first, then clear them." Logan checked his belt and came up empty. "Used the last two on the Sentry Bot," he said. "We've got none." Sinclair leaned back from the console. "Then I request a resupply. EMP grenades from the garage. I won't open that bay without them." His voice went clipped and hard. "I've seen what a live turret does to a man who gambled. Guilt's a lousy partner. So is a chest full of holes." Kira keyed her radio. She called the supply garage and asked for the grenades. The reply came back fast. The mechanic, Tommy Zaxxon, had a crate of them sorted and ready. He would run them up himself. "Hold your position," she told the team. "We wait." They waited. Twenty minutes later the hatch opened. Tommy stepped through in his grey jumpsuit, orange tool pouch on his hip, carrying the crate flat against his chest. He set it down and flipped the lid. Six EMP grenades sat in foam, blue cores glowing. "Brad said you'd need these," he said. "Don't waste them." Sinclair clipped two to his belt. Logan took two more. Kira sealed the rest. The robot bay was still locked, still humming. But now they held the key to open it clean. "Tomorrow we breach," she said. "Rested. Armed. Not a man short."