Free Steelheart by William C. Dietz Page B

moment to interrupt. "Condition Red, I repeat, Condition Red. Fifteen individuals armed with incendiary devices are crossing the street. This system projects a 99% certainty of a class one intrusion approximately forty-five seconds from now."
    Alternatives raced each other through Doon's CPU as he struggled to his feet. They all boiled down to three main strategies: Run like hell, fight to win, or stall for time. The first possibility would leave the roboticist begging on the streets—and the second would result in a pointless bloodbath. The Church would send another mob, and another, until victory was achieved. The android turned to Mary. "Do you trust me?"  
    "Within limits."
    "That will suffice ... now listen carefully. You must prepare two packs, one filled with food, ammo, and whatever medical supplies you may have. And don't forget trade items. Once that pack is ready, load a second one. There aren't a lot of droid docs left, so I'd suggest the scanner, microtools, and some spares. Nothing big or heavy. Don't worry about carrying it, 'cause I'll give you a hand. Now get going— while I slow 'em down."
    The advice had a self-serving quality, especially where the second pack was concerned, but still made sense. Mary decided that she would carry anything having to do with robotics, and let him handle the personal stuff. Something bumped into her foot. "Two plus two equals four."
    "Yeah, I know it does," Mary said patiently and scooped the robot into her hand. "We have to leave, so when I place you in the pack, be sure to stay there."
    "Me stay," the machine agreed cheerfully. "Play with Corley?"
    "Later," Mary said, and was surprised to find that she meant it. "After we cross the mountains and walk for a long time."
    "Later," Hairball agreed, "after my nap."
    Â 
    Doon released the safety strap that kept the weapon in its holster, brushed the duster back, and opened the door. It was snowing, and each flake registered on the microscopic sensors packed between the photovoltaic cells that covered his skin. A single streetlight produced what illumination there was. It flickered and held.
    Clamface was halfway across the street by then, his staff in one hand and a torch in the other. The snow crunched under his thick-soled boots, his breath fogged the air, and his hearts beat like a brog flail. He felt powerful, very powerful, until the door opened and a rectangle of light shot out onto the street. The human looked huge, and the feeling of omnipotence melted away.
    Clamface stopped, one of his followers ran into him, and the rest paused. The voice seemed unnaturally loud and echoed between the buildings. The words might have been in-comprehensible to the Zid, but the tone was clear. "Hold it right there. . . . Drop the torches and run like hell."
    Clamface was well aware that there were some undesirables among his flock, individuals who wanted food more than salvation. He had even considered purging them, driving them out into the wintry night, until an underpriest had offered some advice. "Take that which God offers and apply it to the work. Those of questionable sincerity belong in front, where they can shield the pious from harm and earn the redemption they unconsciously seek."
    Always one to seize on good advice, Clamface had immediately seen the wisdom in the elder's words and organized the mob accordingly. Which explained why the human known as Aho had been assigned to the first rank—a position from which he could "lead" the others into battle. Eager to translate his status into an even higher rank, Aho made his move. A homemade dart gun had appeared in his hand. It gleamed under the light. "Screw you, asshole—prepare to meet your maker!''
    Firing orders were still in the process of traveling toward the human's relatively uncluttered brain when the .44-caliber slug tunneled through his chest, knocked a Zid off his feet, and flattened itself against a brick wall.
    The android backed into the store and