Free The Rendering by Joel Naftali

short: I found workshop seven around the corner.
    Hiding behind a janitorial cart, I eased closer and closer, then stopped, ten feet outside the room. Just in time to watch Roach’s men wheeling this huge pod into the service elevator.
    And on the side of the pod, in big letters:
    HOSTLINK
    I’d arrived too late. Instead of downloading the Protocol into the three cloned skunks, here’s what I’d achieved: I’d moved a few steaks around.
    Perfect. We needed a hero, and we got a T-bone delivery boy.
    To make matters worse, Commander Hund loomed inside the freight elevator, his implanted eye scanning the corridor as the soldiers loaded more crates.
    He tapped his communicator and said, “HostLink secured. Bring us up.”
    “Excellent,” Roach replied. “With the Protocol and the HostLink, we cannot conceivably be defeated.”
    “The boy—”
    “Ignore him. In twenty-five minutes, he’ll be vaporized.”
    “He’s right in front of me,” Hund said, looking at the janitorial cart. “He thinks he’s hiding.”
    “Then kill him, what do I care? Just don’t delay!”
    Hund pulled his guns and blasted away, not even aiming for me, just shredding the cart. Floor wax and glass cleaner splashed everywhere, and I was exposed, crouched in the middle of the hall.
    Hund bared his teeth. “Should I wait twenty-five minutes—or put you out of your misery right now?”
    I shook my head.
    “Your wish is my command,” he said as the elevator doors started closing. “But here’s a parting gift.”
    Then he shot me.
EXCRUCIATING
    In my calf.
    A terrible burning pain.
    Agony.
    I curled into a tight ball. Maybe I screamed.
PAGING DR. MANDIBLE
    Something hissed and popped and crawled toward me—the centipede, looking pretty rough. Charred and cracked and missing half its segments.
    Two of its antennae probed the bullet hole—and in about five seconds, the pain turned to numbness. I blinked the tears from my eyes. My heartbeat slowed a little. My breath stopped coming in short harsh gasps. And a minute after that, the centipede finished sewing the hole in my leg closed.
    “Um, thanks,” I squeaked.
    The centipede reared back and sprayed a clear adhesive patch on the wound. A cool sensation penetrated my skin,and the scent of eucalyptus mixed with the lingering stench of melted plastic and gunpowder.
    “Are you the AI?” I asked, suddenly calm. Probably from a sedative in that spray. “Can you talk?”
    Three of the centipede’s segments cocked, almost quizzically. Then, with a sudden
ttz-pop
, it keeled over. The tractor treads on the underside spun momentarily, then stopped as a cloud of black smoke belched forth.
    I don’t know what was in that painkiller, but I patted the centipede on the head and stood. My leg didn’t hurt; I wasn’t even limping. And my mind was clear.
    I pored over the map. For the first time, I knew exactly what to do.
RAGING BLUE
    “Self-destruct initiated. Detonation sequence in twenty-four minutes. Self-destruct initiated. Detonation sequence in twenty-four minutes.”
    Twenty-four minutes. Plenty of time.
    I grabbed the specimen pack with the steaks and ran. Corridor to vent shaft to access ladder. Supply depot to executive washroom to hallway.
    And from the hallway to the BattleArmor developmentlab, a big square room with equipment and paperwork strewn everywhere in the aftermath of the explosion. But the blast hadn’t even scratched the prototype Quantuum 19 BattleArmor.
    At that time, I didn’t know anything about the BattleArmor other than the name, which I’d read on the screen inside the air lock. Well, and the fact that nobody ever got the prototype working right. I didn’t care about that. I was just looking for places to plug in the steaks. The massive ilatfanium-alloy suit loomed in the corner of the room, with thick cables snaking around plates of impenetrable armor, from gauntlets to a half mask.
    I darted to the console beside the BattleArmor, then stopped, eyeing the