Battleship Raider by Paul Tomlinson (book recommendations website .txt) 📗

completely demolishing the metal serving counter and much of the wall behind it. Luckily they were aiming at a spot that I was no longer occupying. I was in a corner behind a refrigerator.

I’ve never been a big fan of direct brain-computer connection, but this was one of those situations where I wished I had specified that option. Even with the food mixer and everything else making noise, I was afraid that the robots would pick up my whispered conversation with Trixie. I used the virtual keyboard to type, telling Trixie what I was planning. She flashed back a simple ‘OK’ in response. The fact that she didn’t type ‘Are you crazy?!’ gave me a bit of a confidence boost. It was a crazy plan. And it meant putting one of the drones in the firing line – but I think this qualified as a life-or-death moment. My preference was for the ‘life’ outcome.

The little drone drifted through the smoke that was rolling across the ceiling. I could see that this was Mozzie going into battle for the good guys. I wished him well. He attached himself to the front of the food synthesiser and began broadcasting. I’d asked Trixie to create the sort of signal that a Navigator would broadcast. Mozzie was now pretending to be the stolen artificial sentience and was sending out an ‘I’ve been stolen, rescue me’ message on auto-repeat. I knew this would get the robots’ attention. Hopefully, they would think I’d stashed the Navigator in the food synthesizer.

The robot with the missing hand moved towards Mozzie. The other robots followed a little behind and on either side. They continued to look left and right as they approached their target.

There are some things that you are not supposed to cook in a microwave oven – but I’m not sure that exploding eggs can be weaponised. The ingredients I’d wrapped in an old tea towel promised to be much more exciting. A couple of flashlights with good-sized energy cells, my last two mini-bombs, and three of the explosive cartridges from my gun belt. I wasn’t sure of the optimum cooking time or temperature, so I’d whacked all the dials up to maximum. If it turned out all right, I was going to call it kaboom cake.

5–4–3–2–1. Beep! BOOM! 

There was a rule in our house when I was growing up – whoever cooks doesn’t do the washing up. I was happy not to be on the clean-up crew in the canteen. The explosion was massive. It blew the door off the food synthesiser and that hit the robot in the chest, knocking it backwards. At the same time, the other two robots were knocked back by the expanding heat and gas. The force of the blast also carried the whole cooker backwards and through the wall – but this wasn’t immediately obvious because of the smoke. My plan had been to take out one of the robots – the hole in the wall was a bonus.

I had to move quickly. I had no idea how badly the robots might be damaged or how long it might be before they recovered. I scrabbled across the floor, slipping on the debris. The smoke thinned for a moment and I saw a pair of robot legs that weren’t attached to a body and this gladdened my heart. I’d taken out at least one of them. Ironically, I’d learned the trick with the microwave from a robot rights activist. Not far from the legs I could see one of the rifles and I crawled towards it. It was heavier than I expected, but I was happy to bear this extra burden. I’m not usually a fan of heavy artillery – but in the right circumstances, I will make an exception. Trying to avoid anything that seemed to be smouldering or glowing, I crawled over the rubble heaped under the hole in the wall.

Something gripped my ankle, clamping onto it like a vice. I rolled and looked back. One of the robots had hold of me, its hand wrapped around my leg. It was dragging itself towards me with its other arm – and there was no hand on the end of that arm. As it shifted position I could see that the robot’s legs were missing.

“Don’t you ever scracking die?” I yelled at it. I swung the rifle round and aimed at its head. I like to think that its eyes widened in fear just before I pulled the trigger. The recoil threw me backwards. The robot released its grip on me when its head exploded like a pumpkin hit by a cannonball.

I could hear movement back in the canteen – the other robots, presumably. I didn’t wait around to find out.

The room I was in was filled with smoke and dust. There was a lectern at the front and rows of seats had faced this before being swept aside by the remains of an exploding food synthesiser. Maybe this was where the pilots got their briefings. I crossed the space as quickly as the rubble-strewn floor would allow and got out of the door into a corridor I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t have anything to blow the lock with so I just shut the door behind me and ran.

The lights were out in the corridor – not even the red emergency glow to light my way. The drones flew ahead of me, projecting as much light as they could from their little spotlights.

Trixie projected the compass for me and kept me heading north again. Behind me I heard a blast from a rifle. I’m guessing the robot didn’t even test whether or not I’d locked the door. They were in pursuit and they weren’t far behind me.

Dead end. Or so it appeared at first. The way was blocked by a steel wall that, on closer inspection, turned out to be a pair of heavy doors. They must have been sealed shut when the ship was damaged. Doors like this