Free The Boy at the End of the World by Greg van Eekhout Page B

lizard darted back into the green, Fisher almost felt bad for having scared it.
    â€œSorry,” he muttered. He knew what it felt like to be hunted by a bigger animal. He just hoped he was the biggest animal here.
    Craning his neck, he looked for a way up. His legs still stung and ached, and he wasn’t looking forward to a climb. One night, as they made camp, Click had told him about the elevators in the Ark, little rooms that brought you up or down to bigger rooms. If this building had an elevator, it had surely been swallowed by jungle centuries ago.
    Well, there was no avoiding it. If he was going to find the source of the reflection he might as well get started. He found a vertical beam wound with enough vines to provide good hand- and footholds. He climbed.
    By the time he’d made it half a floor up, pain gouged his shaky legs. Blinking sweat from his eyes, he kept on.
    Up he went, until he reached the top floor and broke through the jungle ceiling. He immediately surrendered to pain and fatigue and sank onto a girder to catch his breath.
    After a few minutes, Fisher got back to his feet and looked out across the ghost city. The river spread out like a lake, studded with ruins like stubby thumbs. Would he have to search every one of those thumbs for Click?
    Six silver bumblebees the size of Fisher’s fist emerged from under the ledge of the roof. Sunlight glinted off their mirror-bright surfaces. Their wings beat in a blur. Fisher ducked, ready for the attack, but the bees ignored him. They elevated over his head and dove into the dense growth in the middle of the roof.
    Fisher stared into the green, where the bees had disappeared.
    They weren’t real bees.
    They were machines.
    Gadgets.
    He picked his way across a girder toward the middle of the roof. Really, it wasn’t so much a roof as just a big open space with trees and stuff hiding the gaps that plummeted straight down to the river. More of a death trap, really.
    But gadgets had taken Click, so he followed them. He shimmied down a slender tree trunk, to the green shadows one floor down. Guided by the muffled buzzing of the mechanical bees, he threaded his way through hanging vines. Almost by accident, he found Click. The robot was strung up by black cables. His head lolled to the side. An abdominal panel was missing, exposing wires and circuits and actuators. Some of the wires were cut, and there were some electrical connectors that no longer connected to anything.
    Fisher shook his shoulder. “Click,” he whispered. “Click, wake up.”
    The robot lifted his head. His voice box emitted static. “Fisher. Run.”
    A buzz loud enough to rattle Fisher’s teeth came from behind. Fisher spun around and saw silver bees aiming for his face. On reflex, he swung out with his knife and made contact with a bee. The blade sliced through one of its foil wings and sent the crippled machine tumbling into the rest. They tangled and fell through the jungle, down into the lower floors of the building.
    â€œThe bees are merely unarmed scout-drones,” Click said. “They are not the threat. Your weapons will be of no use against the strikers.”
    What was a striker? Fisher didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out. He began hacking through the cables binding Click. The robot admonished him all the while: “Rescuing me is a bad plan, Fisher. To achieve your ultimate survival objective, you must abandon me and run.”
    â€œCan you climb?” Fisher asked, ignoring him.
    â€œI cannot. The disassemblers disconnected my left-knee servos.”
    Scout-drones, strikers, disassemblers—how many different kinds of gadgets were there?
    With a grunt, Fisher hoisted Click over his shoulder. “I need both arms to climb, so you’ll have to hold on.”
    â€œVery well,” said Click. “How is this?”
    â€œToo … tight … can’t … breathe.”
    â€œAh. Is this