.

figures stood in front of him. The first was Murph, the dustneck scavver who woke him up, then pulled his plug. Beside him stood a shorter, dirtier version of Murph that Cricket guessed was Mikey. He looked similar enough that he might be Murph’s brother. Or cousin. Maybe both.

      Beside them, sizing Cricket up through a pair of whirring tech-goggles, was a boy, maybe nineteen years old. He wore big steel-capped boots and dirty coveralls, dark hair slicked back from his forehead. A laden tool belt was wrapped around his waist, his hands smudged with grease.

      “WHERE AM I?” Cricket asked. “WHERE’S LEMON? WHER—”

      “Hey, shuddup!” Murph hollered, kicking Cricket’s foot. “You only speak when you’re spoken to, acknowledge!”

      The big bot fixed the little man in his glowing blue stare. He realized these dustnecks must have salvaged him from where he’d collapsed. Somehow hauled him to this new city while he was powered down. He had no idea where he could be, how long he’d been offline. But these scavvers might’ve hurt Lemon or Ezekiel in the process of jacking him. His friends might be in danger. Cricket’s titanic fists curled at the thought, a thrill of robotic rage coursing through him. Murph’s eyes widened and he took one step back.

      But despite the anger, the thought of what might have happened or be happening to Lemon because these dustnecks stole him, Cricket was still a logika. The Three Laws were hard-coded into his head. Including good old number two.

       A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

      And so …

      “ACKNOWLEDGED,” he finally growled.

      The boy in the coveralls stepped closer, seemingly unafraid of the tremor in Crick’s voice. He peered up to the big bot’s glowing eyes, his goggles whirring and shifting focus as he took the logika’s measure.

      “How much you want for it?” he murmured, turning to the scavvers.

      The thieves whispered between themselves, quickly fell to cussing and shoving. Murph finally punched Mikey’s arm and hissed for silence.

      “Three thousand liters,” he declared.

      The boy tilted his head. “You know Mother will never agree to that, Murphy. Those combat drones you brought us last month all blew their gyroscopes after a few days. She doesn’t have much faith in your wares.”

      “Yeah, but look!” Murph kicked Cricket’s foot again. “Hasn’t hardly got a scratch on it! I’ve never seen a model like this! It’s got some hard bark on it, Abe!”

      “Reckon we could go down to two and a half,” Mikey muttered.

      “Shuddup, Mike, I’m doing the negotiatin’ here.”

      “You shuddup!” Mike said, punching Murph in the arm.

      The pair fell to fighting, slapping and shoving and cursing. Murph grabbed Mike in a headlock, Mike started punching his brother/cousin’s kidneys, the scavvers falling in a tangle on the concrete as the boy folded his arms and sighed. The brawl went on for a good minute until a soft voice cut the air.

      “Gentlemen. Need I remind you this is a house of God?”

      Silence hit the room like a sledgehammer. Cricket saw a new figure had entered through a pair of double doors, flanked by a dozen men.

      A woman in a white robe. She had pale skin, long dark hair, washed and combed. She was thin, gaunt almost, and about the cleanest human being Cricket had ever locked optics on. But her face was painted with a greasepaint skull, dark hollows daubed at her cheeks and around her eyes. Cricket realized the white robe she wore was actually a cassock, and that an ornate metal X hung around her neck.

       That’s the symbol of the Brotherhood …

      “S-Sister D-Dee,” Mike stuttered, eyes wide with fear.

      “Apologies, ma’am,” Murphy said, picking himself up and standing like a child about to be scolded. “We d-didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.”

      The figures flanking Sister Dee fanned out around the room—all of them big, hulking men armed with automatic shooters. Each was dressed in a black Kevlar cassock, greasepaint Xs on their faces.

       More Brotherhood …

      Cricket looked around the room, his processors in overdrive.

       Where on earth am I?

      The woman slowly entered the workshop, more gliding than walking. She made no sound, and seemed to bring a stillness with her as she came. Murph and Mike shrank down on themselves, even the coolant fans overhead seemed to hush. Her long hair rippled as she moved, her dark, burning eyes focused on Cricket. Her fingernails were black. Her voice was soft and melodious.

      “More flotsam from the wastes, Abraham?” she asked.

      The boy turned to Mike and Murphy. “Give us a minute, boys?”

      “Sure, sure, Abe,” Murph nodded, utterly cowed. “Long as you like!”

      The boy and the woman stepped over to a quiet corner of the workshop while Murph and Mike held on to their crotches. The Brotherhood bullyboys just watched on silently. The boy and woman spoke in low voices, but Cricket’s audio was sharp enough that he could scope every word.

      “These vultures again?” the woman sighed. “I do wish you’d spend your time more productively than trifling with heathen trashmen, Abraham.”

      “I’m sorry, Mother,” the boy whispered. “But I recognize this logika from the old WarDome feeds I watched when I was small. It’s the Quixote. Built by GnosisLabs. Twelve thousand horsepower.”

      The woman raised one painted eyebrow. “Are you certain?”

      “The GL logo is right there on its chest,” the boy nodded. “Murphy has no idea what he’s scavved.”

      “How much do they want for it?”

      “Three thousand.”

      “I should have them crucified.”

      “This logika is tier one, Mother,” Abraham said. “It’s good enough to fight in Megopolis. And more, it’s good enough to win.”

      Sister Dee turned back to Cricket with narrowed eyes. He could feel her stare somewhere in his core code, a soft warning buzzing in back of his head. The boy stood behind her, silent in his mother’s shadow.

      “I have a proposition for you, Mister Murphy,” Sister Dee called.

      “Yes, ma’am?” the scavver replied.

      “We have WarDome here tonight. The Edge have sent up the Thunderstorm to do battle in New Bethlehem arena. We were planning on fighting the Paragon”—she waved at another logika powered down in the corner—“but I suggest you put your money where your mouth is, and pit your bot against the Edge’s champion. If it’s victorious, we’ll buy it. Two thousand liters.”

      Murph and Mike whispered among themselves, clearly in opposition. Their voices got louder, Mike punched Murph’s arm, and hostilities looked set to break out again, when Sister Dee cleared her throat. The scavvers fell still, eyes on the floor.

      “Deal,” Murph finally said.

      The man shuffled over, spat in his greasy palm. Sister Dee simply stared. Meeting the woman’s dark eyes, Murph wiped the spit off on his shirt, then offered his hand again.

      “The bargain struck,” Sister Dee replied, shaking it.

      Cricket wanted to protest. Demand these people let him go. He wanted to know where he was, what they’d done with Lemon, if his friends were okay. The questions bubbled up inside him with nowhere to go. He’d been commanded to be silent until someone addressed him, and these folks were acting like he wasn’t in the room, let alone