Page 87 of Dustwalker

It was mercy. There was no other choice, and it was a mercy to do it. You’re not going to have us again, even after we’re dead. Not going to have us or ours! You made me kill them. Made me

It was a mercy A MERCY

Lord, have mercy on me.

Folding the paper, Ronin stared at the remains. He’d spent many years longing for the return of his memories from the before time, had thought himself incomplete without them. But were thesethe sorts of memories stored in the corrupted part of his mind? Was the data full of scenes like this?

He lifted the skeletal hand and replaced the note. His optics flicked to the pallet. Which of the smaller skeletons had been Lindsey?

Having lost his desire to search the basement further, he rose and walked to the workbench. The reloading press would trade for a good amount, and it would have to be enough.

I need to get back to Lara.

He stowed his pistol and set to work.

The bolts fastening the press to the benchtop were rusted. They groaned in protest when he clamped his pliers onto them and exerted pressure, but they gave way. He added the press to his bag and swept in some of the nearby cans along with it.

Lara would be pleased. He’d asked for a few days, but if he started back now, he’d be back in Cheyenne within twelve hours of leaving.

He walked through the blankets, moving them aside with an outstretched arm. Dust filled the air, obscuring his vision.

Something thin and wirelike caught his ankle.

He heard a short, metallic scrape, followed by the sound of a small piece of metal falling to the concrete.

The fraction of a second Ronin had to anticipate what was coming proved too little. His processors fired off a volley of commands.

Leap away.

Turn around.

Shield optics and torso.

Drop to the floor.

The blast hit him before any of those actions could be performed. His optics flickered to static, and his audio receptors measured one hundred and eighty decibels before cutting out. His dermal sensors registered the concussive wave, a rush of hot air, and shrapnel tearing his skin to ribbons. Pain blazed through him. The sheets and blankets around him caught fire, falling atop him as he stumbled backward. His right leg locked, nearly toppling him over.

He registered the intense heat both as a measurement of temperature and as searing agony melting the electrodes in and beneath his skin.

The haul.

Ronin and Lara wouldn’t be equipped to leave Cheyenne if he didn’t bring back more salvage.

Lifting both hands, he fumbled through burning fabric and melting synthetic flesh to tear the straps of his rucksack and thrust it away. His optics were chaotic, and he didn’t know if it was because of the fire or if they’d suffered serious damage. Grabbing whatever fabric he could, he wrenched off the burning blanket that had enwrapped him along with his coat, thrusting them away. He slid his foot back to put distance between himself and the flames.

His heel caught on something—probably his discarded pack. It was enough to disrupt his precarious balance. Ronin fell backwards. He was aware of more fabric enveloping him and the heavythunkof his head hitting the concrete before most of his systems went into standby.

You’re not going to have us, even after we’re dead.

The father had set a trap.

An automatic diagnostics scan began, assessing the damage.

External temperature normalizing. Casing penetrated in thirteen locations. Severe damage to synthetic epidermis, fifty-two percent loss. Power cells stable, eighty-six point six-five percent charge remaining.

One by one, his systems rebooted.

Motor functions impaired by damage to right knee joint. Audio receptors functioning normally. Left optical input offline.