Free Broken Hero by Jonathan Wood Page A

danger.”
    “From whom?” Felicity is brusquely efficient.
    The robot hesitates. Then, “From time,” he says.
    Felicity flicks a look in my direction. I try to micro-shrug, but that’s more Clyde’s game. She turns back to the robots.
    “If I’m going to offer you any form of asylum,” Felicity says, “I’m going to need something decidedly less cryptic.”
    The one nearer the alley exit shifts again. “They can offer us nothing,” he says. “This was mistake. I should not have listened to you.”
    The friendlier of the two turns to him. Clacking German vowels and consonants are muttered in a rush back and forth, one placating, the other grumbling. The friendly Uhrwerkmänn turns back to us. “I am sorry,” he says. “This is difficult for us to discuss. We are so used to isolation. Of taking care of our own. This is difficult for Hermann. He feels Nils’ loss sharply.”
    Another explosive burst of German from Mr Tall Bronze and Miserable. I see Kayla’s hand twitch toward her sword handle.
    “Nils?” Felicity asks when the outburst is over.
    The Uhrwerkmänner bobs his massive head, cloak quaking about him. “He attacked you yesterday. He caused much damage. He will not be the only one.”
    Kayla’s hand twitches again. Felicity subtly shifts her stance, squares her weight between her feet.
    “Is that a threat?”
    The Uhrwerkmänn jerks his hands up, and Kayla’s sword is out of its sheath in the blink of an eye. My pistol and Hannah’s are hardly a second behind it. But the robot’s palms are again up, defensive. He takes a stumbling step back.
    “No. No. Nothing like that. No. It is a tragedy. It is why we are here. We are breaking down. We need to be fixed.”
    Felicity gives me another look. My gun is still out, but no longer trained on the big machine. The one called Hermann seems torn between fleeing for the street and charging us down. But the other one… He sounds genuine. There is an edge of bitterness and sorrow in his voice that I think it would be hard to fake. And honestly, if they wanted to attack us, that moment surely would have come by now.
    I nod back to Felicity. For what my opinion is worth. She hesitates another second then nods in turn, this time to the Uhrwerkmänner. “You’d better come in.”

11
    Prior to becoming a makeshift meeting room, the warehouse-sized storage room at the base of the service elevator shaft appears to have primarily provided a place for old tarpaulins to come and enjoy their twilight years in peace. Steel rafters criss-cross the ceiling, casting odd shadows against the thin fluorescent light.
    Slowly the first Uhrwerkmänn removes his cloak, exposing himself foot by glistening foot. As the whole shape is revealed, I feel my heart stutter in my chest. This is yesterday repeating. Its form is too close, too similar. Adrenaline twitches at the corners of my senses. As large as it is, the warehouse suddenly feels too small, too confined. I want a blue sky above my head.
    “Hello,” says the machine, “my name is Volk.”
    I am still in possession of enough of my faculties to notice that there are differences between this Uhrwerkmänn and the one that almost ended me yesterday. The eyes are not insectile, but instead each one is described by a round panel of thick glass, like the bottom of a milk bottle. A panel of bronze approximates a nose. Instead of the constantly chattering teeth, its mouth is a thin horizontal speaker bar. There is less exposed gearwork, more panels. In general he seems to be in better physical shape, the metal polished, well-oiled. The clack and whir of his movements sounds smooth, not the awkward guttering clack of the other.
    I try to focus on those differences, try to slow my breathing.
    The other one, unfriendly Hermann, keeps his cloak on. He hangs back, deeper in the shadows, seemingly trying to gather an extra layer of obfuscation.
    Volk looks to Clyde. “You named us, knew us. We are the