Free The Veiled Threat by Alan Dean Foster

navigate around rather than over or through the mass of building material.
    Ghiwa threw himself down behind the machine-gun operators, who had finally managed to get the heavy M60 up on its tripod. What they really needed, he knew, was a Dillon M134, but the always cash-strapped government had no money for such advanced weapons. He had to lean close to the operators to make himself heard above the racket of small-arms fire.
    “Not there, not there!” To get the gunner’s attention he slapped a palm down hard on the man’s helmet. “Forget about the rabble around the delivery truck.” Raising an arm, he pointed. “Take out thatrecycling vehicle. We don’t know what’s inside. It might be a bomb. Or even a dirty bomb.”
    The gunner looked back at him, confused. “Sir, what is a dirty bomb?”
    “Never mind. Just shoot!” A dirty bomb, the major knew, would be a device favored in current circumstances not only by eco-terrorists wishing to disrupt the future construction of the Batoka dam, but also by criminals or rebels seeking to extort money from the construction consortium. Setting one off in the depot could contaminate and render useless tens of millions of dollars in supplies. Or the garbage truck could simply contain explosives or additional fighters.
    The rumbling, squealing vehicle did not contain any of those destructive elements, however. It was a destructive element all by itself.
    As the rebels cheered from behind the protection of their jeep and the delivery truck, the hulking waste collector began to alter shape, rising up on columnar legs until he loomed over the surrounding supply yard. While small-caliber slugs and the larger shells from the heavy machine gun ricocheted off his armored flanks, Macerator studied the local resistance. Though active and defiant, it was every bit as primitive as Starscream had described. Further changing shape and function, arms swiftly became armature.
    Construction supplies and bodies flew in all directions as explosive shells began to land among the defending soldiers. Ducking and rolling backward, Ghiwa yelled to his men.
    “Spread out! Aim for the thing’s head!”
    Scrambling to his left, he tried to avoid being blownto bits as he raced for the gate that led back to the barracks. At the same time he found himself wondering—what could the huge mechanical invaders possibly want with a yard full of construction supplies?
    Time enough if he survived to ponder the motivation of assailants whose intentions were as incomprehensible as their appearance. Right now he had to get to the barracks to file an emergency report. Cell phone reception in the Makoli area was intermittent, but there was a broadband connection in his office. If his men and du Hoit’s could keep the rebels and their strange war machines occupied, he could sound a warning and call for help.
    Something exploded against Macerator’s back. Pivoting, he searched for the source of the irritation. A second explosion tickled his chin. Ah, there. More of the tiny organics, firing self-propelled explosives at him. These were far too feeble to even scratch his armor, but the smoke and noise were a distraction. Raising his right arm, he unleashed a small missile. Dirt, powdered concrete, wood framing, and an assortment of human detritus shot skyward as the missile struck home. The irritation promptly vanished. Ignoring the lighter fire that continued to pepper him, he resumed his advance toward the concrete-reinforced building in the center of the compound. While he was surrounded by much that was useful, his perceptors had informed him that the isolated structure contained the choicest prize. Bullets of varying caliber fell from his flanks like dark raindrops.
    Questioning whether his mercenary counterpart and colleague du Hoit was still alive, Ghiwa scrambled from behind a three-story-high stack of precaststeel arches and sprinted toward the open access gate. No shells or missiles landed near him. If his