It was the wrong thing to say. Five rifles swung from shoulders and pointed at the black robot.
‘Are you telling us what to do?’ asked one of the infantryrobots. The Storm Trooper raised itself up, then it seemed to notice the faces of the other soldiers. Susan got the impression that these were experienced fighters. Their bodies were well worn, covered in a fine tracery of scratches.
‘What’s a mother of Artemis doing roaming the streets with the city preparing for attack?’ asked the Storm Trooper.
‘I was trying to get back to the making rooms and he captured me,’ lied Susan. ‘He dragged me down there. He took my hand…’
‘Give it back to her,’ said the lead infantryrobot.
‘She’s lying!’ The Storm Trooper seemed more amused than angry.
A rifle pointed directly at his head.
‘Give her back her hand!’
The Storm Trooper dropped the hand to the ground. Susan quickly snapped it back into place.
‘I must get back, right now!’ she said, and before anyone could stop her, she turned and ran up the street, losing herself in the crowd of marching robots.
The Storm Trooper’s voice followed her up the road, deep and growling, it cut through the sound of the marching.
‘I’ll be coming for you…’
Susan ran up the street, dodging through the moving ranks. Ahead of her she saw a black phalanx of Storm Troopers, and she dodged down another side alley. She was quickly lost in darkness, the lights of the city vanishing as the buildings enfolded her.
Where was she? This was like no part of the city she had been to before. It seemed so empty, and it took Susan a moment to realize that the area in which she walked was almost completely devoid of metal. Stone buildings ran in every direction. Tall and short, wide and long, crammed together higgledy-piggledy, they seemed ancient and modern and everything in between.
It seemed so strange, so un-Artemisian, in a city that prized utility above all else. She walked through an area without purpose. The current in her body seemed to pulse. Somewhere behind her was the Storm Trooper. She imagined him looking for her now, creeping through the darkness, reaching out to seize her shoulder…
She spun suddenly around. Nothing. Only darkness. She started at a sudden movement, and then relaxed. Just her hearing and vision turned up full and responding to every stimulus.
She walked carefully on, her path defined by the bright stars above her, irregular patches of light over the dark world.
It was so silent, the sound of the hammering and marching had faded to nothing and for the first time in months Susan felt utterly alone. It was a new sort of fear, different to that instilled by her capture by Artemisian troops. This was the fear of the strange, the unknown. The fear of asymmetric streets under starlight, the fear of empty windows and hollow buildings.
Ahead of her two towers climbed into the night, so tall, their shapes only seen where they occluded the stars. There was something so unsettling about them, she wanted to avoid them, but now all the side roads seem to have vanished. She could either walk towards them, or back into the arms of the Storm Trooper.
The two towers seemed so sinister, but there was nowhere else to go. They rose higher into the sky as she approached them; they loomed over her.
She found herself walking between them.
‘I’m coming…’
The Storm Trooper! It was almost a relief to hear the words, their distant menace a thread of familiarity to lead her from this strange night. Keep away from him, but don’t get lost in this empty, silent place.
She felt the metal door to her side. In the middle of all this stone, its presence seemed amplified. She found herself walking towards it without thinking. It was a stupid thing to do, she realized later. Where else but in here would the Storm Trooper think to look for her? But nonetheless she found herself placing her hand on it, feeling for the catch through the metal, opening it.
She edged into the darkness beyond and pushed the door close, shutting out the city beyond.
As she did so she heard the movement in the room behind her.
She turned around.
Yellow eyes illuminated the darkness.
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do summoned two dressing women and made his way to the Copper Master’s forge. There he stripped away his panelling and allowed the women to clean him, to adjust his electro-muscle, to work smooth the roughened bearings, to gently oil him. Red coal light filled the room, white flame flared, pumped by the leather bellows. There was the gentle knock and clank of metal on metal.
The armourer was summoned; she opened a black metal case before him. Inside was a display of pistols arranged in order of colour, alloys running from grey to black.
‘May I recommend this one, Honoured Commander?’ she said, lifting a black snub-nosed specimen from the case. The grip was smooth, it would be moulded to the shape of Wa-Ka-Mo-Do’s hand should he choose it. ‘I supervised its construction myself. It is made of steel, obviously, but there is a version in red brass, should you prefer.’
‘No, thank you, Ging-Lan-Keralla. Do you have a shotgun?’
The armourer could not quite conceal her look of hurt surprise.
‘My apologies, Ging-Lan-Keralla. I did not mean any insult to your craft. But I think a shotgun would be the most suitable weapon within this city. Less lethal, for one thing. And easier to aim at close quarters.’
‘The commander is perhaps not used to firearms?’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do gazed up at the armourer. There was no insult intended, he was sure.
‘I am competent, Ging-Lan-Keralla, however I prefer the blade. I would be most pleased if you would sharpen my sword, and the blades of my body.’
At that he extended the blades at his wrists and fingers. He caught the change in the electrical hum of the dressing woman nearest to him and noted how she immediately looked away from his naked form, blades extended. Ging-Lan-Keralla, however, gazed down at him with a look of approval that was entirely down to her craft.
‘It will be my pleasure, Honoured Commander. And I shall arrange for a shotgun to be delivered immediately.’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do was a self-made robot, and his form caused a little confusion to the dressing women, but they worked efficiently enough. Despite the pressure he was under, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do allowed himself to relax: this was one of the arts of a warrior.
Eventually, he was cleaned and fixed and tuned. A dressing woman brought him the first of his panelling, freshly polished.
‘My mistake,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I should have told you that I was dressing for the field, not the ballroom,’ and he showed her how to hold the gleaming scarlet-painted metal in the flame of the fire, blackening it. As he did so Ging-Lan-Keralla returned with a short, black shotgun.
‘Thank you,’ he said, admiring it. ‘But why the wooden stock? Surely that will make it harder to repair?’
‘It will. But the Commander of Sangrel is known as a poet as well as a warrior, and that is both a weapon and a thing of beauty.’
‘It is indeed,’ he replied, turning it in the light.
‘Excuse me, Honoured Commander,’ said the armourer, taking the gun. She fastened a long leather strap to it, and then slung the gun over his shoulder.
‘There. It suits you.’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do looked at himself in a sheet of polished copper. It did.
‘Thank you, Ging-Lan-Keralla. You are a master of your craft.’