"…I don't know why Armor is always moping around. It must be all the "heavy" thoughts, ha ha! Or maybe he just needs some music in his life. Hey, Rekir, why don't you serenade him some time? What's that tube-thing called, anyway? A trumpet?"

Rekir rolled his eyes. "It's a trombone, you philistine, and you're just jealous because you've got no rhythm at all."

Boj grinned. "You keep telling yourself that. I think…"

"What was that?"

The transport went silent. Zero had spoken. Even Zero had enough self-consciousness to know that was unusual. He felt their eyes upon him, seeking clarification, but he ignored them. He was trying to recover the moment. He was trying to recover the sound.

"What was what?" asked Boj.

"Give me control," Zero ordered. He pressed his hands against the passenger console. A panel flipped open and driving controls popped into his waiting palms.

Rekir had done this more than once before. He offered no objections and instead flipped a switch. "You have control," he said.

"I have control," Zero agreed, and spun the wheel into a sans-signal U-turn.

A horn from outside the transport reached the squad's ears, but they were expecting this sort of thing by now; they'd been on patrol with Zero too often to be surprised by his actions. Instead, they were already gripping whatever they could find. Zero noted with some satisfaction that none of them more than swayed as he completed the maneuver.

With another set of controls, he raised the transport's hover height until it was enough to pass over most traffic. It was a seriously inefficient use of fuel, and it could potentially damage people's cars if he pulled maneuvers while over them, but it couldn't be beaten for speed, so it was—of course—Zero's favorite way to drive. As a side benefit, it drove the Hunters' lawyers crazy.

"Zero's sensor range is greater than ours," Rekir said to Boj. "You trust it because he does, and he's never wrong. If he says he heard something, he heard something." He turned to Zero. "What was it this time? High frequency or low?"

"Low," Zero replied. "Explosions, I think."

"Explosions? Plural?"

"Yes. Big ones, too." They turned a corner, banking sharply; the transport's occupants swayed again. Zero frowned. "We should be able to see the smoke by now… were they really that big?" He ran some quick calculations and didn't like the results. "Rekir, raise headquarters."

"I've been trying since I gave you control. Nothing."

"Try the other 0th half-squad."

A few seconds, then a head shake. "No."

There—they'd cleared enough ground to start to see the smoke plume deeper in the city. "General channel," Zero said, frustrated.

"You want to speak?"

"Yes."

"Online."

"Any Hunter unit," Zero said, "this is 0th Squad. I heard explosions coming from city center and I see smoke rising. Can any unit confirm what's happening there?"

The silence was deafening. Zero looked to Rekir; Rekir mouthed "it's on" before Zero could ask his question.

"Calling any Hunter unit," Zero said again, "this is 0th Squad. I need eyes on the city center. Any unit, respond."

The crackling of incoming traffic was almost startling. "Zero, this is Heavyarms. My half-squad just got jumped twice. First time was Mavericks—more organized than I've ever seen 'em. Second time was Hunters. Some of ours. What the scrap is going on here?"

Zero frowned deeply. "You were attacked by Hunters? You're sure?"

"Rust yeah I'm sure! Spark Mandrill's squad, Tory's half. Shot us up pretty good, but they didn't think I had that many missiles. They've backed off for now. We're holed up near HQ—we were on our way home when we got hit… lemme take a look, hold on…"

Traffic was impossible, now. Closer to the explosions, more people were responding, and the streets were flooded with people and vehicles. They were milling like cattle, unsure which direction they should be going, ready at any moment to stampede. Zero had to slow down, lest the hover drive's thrust knock people senseless. The transport's lights and sirens made no discernible difference.

"Zero, Heavyarms. HQ is burning. It's burning, and from the inside… is that… is that weapons fire?"

That was all the confirmation Zero needed. Betrayal. Inside job. Hunters gone Maverick. His mind focused like a laser on the tactical implications. The enemy is us. He knows us as well as he knows himself. He knew our patrol routes, where and when to hit us, how we communicate, how we… how we…

"Oh, rust me!" Heavyarms shouted. "That's Flame Mammoth! He's murdering everyone on the ground floor!"

"Heavyarms, get out of there, get off this channel, they can hear you! They've triangulated your position by now…"

"Argh, too late! It's… it's Boomer, where'd he… Zero! You've got to—hurk!"

Silence on the line.

Zero's eyes were wide, manic, wild. Survival instincts kicked in—different ones from those found in any reploid. In one continuous set of motions he slammed on the brakes, activated the transport's auto-park, tumbled into the space between front seats and back, bounced to his feet, and drew both his tactical and reserve sabers. One hovered next to Rekir's head in front, the other split the difference between Boj and Mace.

"Who's it going to be?" he whispered. "Which of you's going to be the one who betrays me? Or is it all of you? Should I… should I kill all of you just to be safe?" He shook his head, long hair flicking about like a horse's tail. "Is Hunters killing each other normal, now? Is this what we're supposed to be doing? What's going on?" No one spoke. "Answer me! Who's going to be the one to betray me? Tell me now and we can get this over with!"

"Zero," Rekir said calmly, "they couldn't convince me to attack you if they tried. Even if they had, do you think I'd be stupid enough to wait this long? I would have long ago made my move, before there was any possibility of you catching on. You know that. The alternative is tactically moronic, and that's not me."

"You've saved my life at least a dozen times," Boj said to Zero. "I owe you more than I could ever give back. That means something to me."

Mace didn't bother with words. He lowered his large laser cannon between himself and Boj. It wasn't a quick-hitting weapon like most Hunters' busters, but given time it could melt through almost anything. With deliberation, lest he provoke Zero's infamously quick reflexes, he detached the laser's power pack and slid the powerless weapon towards Zero.

"I don't know what's going on," Rekir said; he caught Mace's eye and they nodded at each other, sharing understanding. "But you're obviously not one of the Mavericks, or we'd be dead already. If there's one thing I know about you, Zero, it's that you kill Mavericks. That's good enough for me. I'll trust you. I'll let you decide how much to trust me."

Zero looked around, glancing from one member of the squad to another. He looked at Rekir and called up his database entries for him. He got a mission history, a record of interactions, and numeric scorings of Rekir's combat abilities—speed, armor, and so on.

There was no rating for trustworthiness.

Zero had never considered it something worth tracking. Friends were friends, enemies were enemies, and never the twain shall meet. What to make of all this, when red was blue and blue was red? Zero didn't like ambiguity. He didn't like it at all.

And then, over the radio, he heard the voice.

"Zero," Sigma said. "Talk to me, Zero."

Zero's eyes were drawn to the radio as if he could see Sigma through it.

"I want to hear you, Zero. We have to talk. We have to sort out, between us, what's worth protecting." Zero's eyes slipped out of focus as Sigma continued. "I need your help, Zero. Talk to me. I need your sword. I want you to fight by my side."

"Fight? Against who? What for?" Zero wondered aloud.

"There's so much good we can do, Zero, if only you'll help me."

"If you're doing good," Zero said, voice pained, "why is Heavyarms dead? What is 'good', anyway?"

He deactivated his sabers and replaced them—one ready over his shoulder, one in reserve. He hardly noticed the way his squadmates relaxed when the sabers were away from their heads. Instead he reached out and turned the radio off.

Looking to Mace, he took the power pack from the larger reploid's hands and slammed it home in the idle laser cannon. He hefted it—it was heavier than it looked, but no trouble for Zero—and pressed it back in Mace's hands. "Mavericks are out there," he said, "attacking Hunters. If we're next, I'll take all the help I can get."

"Of course, sir," Mace said, smiling.

"I should also mention," Zero added, "that we're probably the only Hunters that are free to act right now. I'm guessing there were ambushes of every patrol. We only avoided it because I changed our patrol route. And after what happened to Heavyarms, any other survivors will stay off our comms channels. We're on our own."

"Then we'll have to really give 'em hell," Boj said, "to make up for the rest."

"Target rich environment," Mace said solemnly.

Zero smiled. "That's the kind of thinking I like."

"Where to?" Rekir asked, taking control of the vehicle.

Where to? Where would I go? What am I fighting for? What is worth fighting for? I know I have to fight, but… whom?

Who would know? Sigma? No, something's wrong there, something… X! X would know! I don't know if I can trust Sigma anymore, but I can always trust X.

"Cain Labs," Zero said. Rekir's face showed surprise, but he complied. Zero watched just long enough to know that Rekir was heading the right direction, then closed his eyes and activated his internal transmitter.

X? X, can you hear me? I need you, X. I need your help.

There wasn't a great chance of getting through. Internal transmitters were uncommon, he knew, because of the space they took and because, being small, they were necessarily short-ranged. He wasn't political enough to know that reploids having that degree of privacy in their communications was frowned on, socially; virtually no reploid designs carried such transmitters. Regardless, he would keep trying until he raised X. This was too important.

Only you'd know, because you're my friend. The only one I can call my friend.

What am I supposed to do now?


Hearing the death of the Hunter called Heavyarms proved everything X had feared. He dashed to the receptionist's table at the front of Cain Labs, quickly as he dared. Going all-out would have probably set fires in the lobby. "I need to use the PA," he said.

The receptionist's response wasn't what he'd hoped for. She looked at him with surprise and almost a lack of recognition. Surely it's not just the helmet, X thought to himself. I've come in and out of here plenty of times. She has to know it's me.

Then he caught a glimpse of himself, reflected in her glasses. The expression on his face was hard. His eyes were narrow and intense. His hands, he noted, were balled up tightly. Now that he paid attention to himself, he saw that even his posture had become aggressive. All of that was a break from the past.

He took a breath to calm both himself and the receptionist. "Cheryl," he said, "it's me. It's X. Listen to me, Cheryl. I need to use the PA."

That seemed to reach her. Nodding her head vacantly, she slid a microphone base towards him. X gathered his wits before he spoke. Authority did not come naturally to him, but that's what the moment demanded.

"Everyone," he said, trying to keep his voice firm, "a large-scale Maverick incident is beginning. I would ask everyone to please stay inside where it's safe. If you have any projects, robots, or tools that would help in the defense of this lab, please speak to Dr. Cain. I will try to let you know when it calms down. Until then, again, please stay inside."

He handed the PA base back to Cheryl, who put it down with a thunk. "I quit," she said. "First that Maverick, Andre, that tried to… and now this… I can't deal with it. I'm not getting paid enough for this. I don't wanna die. I quit."

"Cheryl," X said gently, "this is probably the safest place right now. Dr. Cain is gathering everything in the lab that can fight back to protect us. And… and there's me," he said, smiling despite himself.

That seemed to surprise her, almost as much as it surprised him. He tried his best to give a genuine expression—her eyes widened at his words, allowing a hint of hope to sneak in the sides-

Boom.

What was that sound? Explosion—had to be. Turning away, he dashed for the exit. He opened and shut the door so fiercely he almost shattered the glass. Scanned around quickly—there. Saw it. Great cloud of dust and dirt hanging in the air from the explosion. Must have been a big one, to make that sound at this range. What was in that direction? Not much of value… oh! Road.

Were the Mavericks cutting the roads? Then their next target would be…

X looked to the 495 "beltway", where it dumped out onto the ultra-highrise. Sure enough, he could see activity there beyond the normal traffic. Was that… a bee blader?

With bombs!

X watched with agonizing impotence as fire blossomed on the highway. Cars and structures disappeared behind the blasts and the smoke that followed them. X was running almost before he realized he should. His body was responding before his mind could catch up. Focusing, he targeted the bee blader. The range was extreme, even with it heading in his direction. They'd cut one of the accesses to the highway; clearly they would target the next…

He sprinted, boosters flaring, to get access to the highway. He watched the bee blader as he climbed the ultra-highrise, ticking down the range before his busters would be effective. Plasma relied on its heat for its damage; if it had to travel too far, the combination of dispersion and heat transfer to the air robbed it of effectiveness.

How could he take the blader down quickly? And it would have to be quick, before it dropped its…

Oh, of course.

He cleared the lip of the highway, planted his feet on the smooth pavement, and began to charge his right buster to maximum capacitance. A standard plasma shot was damaging enough, and his busters were primed to fire those at any time he was in combat mode. That wasn't his limit, though. Getting the most damage out of his weaponry involved an extra expenditure of time and energy. He couldn't maintain a charge for very long without damaging his systems, but it allowed him to pack the most stopping power into individual shots.

His right arm whined as the charge built, and built, and built some more, until the buster's emitter glowed white with barely-restrained power. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He'd only ever charged this much once, in a testing situation. It made him jittery, and a good chunk of his robotic brain was occupied overseeing the process. It left less processor time than he'd hoped for to watch the bee blader.

Working in his favor was that Dr. Light's combat subroutines were extremely well-developed.

X hadn't fired very often, but his targeting protocols were exquisite. This was part of Dr. Light's message to him, the message that manifested in his design and construction: You don't have to fight if you don't want to. But if you choose to fight, win.

Bracing his right arm with his left, X slightly adjusted his aim to compensate for distance and the twitchiness in his buster arm and let fly.

The burning-bright plasma bolt was almost too much for even his optics, and he was ready for it. The bolt roared through the air, becoming slightly smaller and weaker as it went, but it was still ravenous when it impacted the bee blader.

Specifically, when it impacted the bombs the bee blader was carrying.

A magrifle's solid slug wouldn't have caused what happened next. Neither would a laser. Plasma busters had a distinctive combination of thermal and kinetic energy: a combination uniquely suited to triggering explosives that otherwise would have required a blasting cap.

The bee blader disintegrated in a fireworks-like explosion. The detonation was so fierce that no large components of the bee blader remained; it was reduced to an expanding field of shrapnel and smoke. Super-heated shards of metal arced away, cooling and fading from view as they fell.

There was a slight ache from X's buster. He found it strangely reassuring that firing a charged shot caused him discomfort. Still, he waited curiously as his systems checked up on the arm. All parameters normal. They'd done no more or less than what they were designed to do. There was a limit to how many of those he could fire consecutively, but it would be a while before he found where that limit was.

I did that, he thought as he watched the fragments of the bee blader scatter. Precision and power both. This is the sort of thing I'm capable of.

It didn't make him happy. It didn't make him sad, either. It simply made him more aware of both the good and the bad he could accomplish. This is the power Dr. Light gave me. The power to protect or destroy with terrifying results. What was he thinking?

His eyes picked out a second bee blader—no doubt coming around to finish what the first one had started. X kicked his boosters into gear. He'd engage this one before it could drop its first bomb. It would kill no one. Not while he was here.

That, he decided, was as good a use of his power as any.


The Mavericks had no banners or uniforms. Some had the small stylized sigmas, but not all. Yet everywhere you looked, the black flag of vengeance was being raised.


Professor Fitzhugh lived in an apartment near Abel City's government district—a holdover from his previous career. It was a spacious two-bedroom deal. The master bathroom was his particular joy, but the main attraction was the simple size of the place. Wasting space was a sign of affluence in such a crowded part of the city.

Fitzhugh was at home when the rebellion began. A stack of ungraded exams sat on his dining room table, a sore reminder of his duties, but Fitzhugh had resolved to dump those on a teaching assistant at the first opportunity. He was on the phone with an old student of his from yesteryear with whom he'd maintained a good relationship. ("Good" was also how he'd have described her taste.) With his attention so occupied, the first indication he got that anything was wrong was the drifting of smoke past his windows.

Seeing that prompted him to break off his conversation and turn on the TV.

Static greeted him.

Fear consumed Fitzhugh as he began to understand what was happening. He moved to the windows and looked down—and saw fire and panic in the streets.

He froze at first, like a deer in headlights. When he couldn't take the tension anymore, he snapped into action. First, he rushed to the door and locked it. Next, back to the windows—he pulled the curtains across. He was headed to the kitchen when he remembered the bedroom curtains. Went back. Threw them. Back to the kitchen. Lights off in the kitchen, lights off in the living room, television off, no signs of life; the apartment was darkened now. He grabbed a package of cookies from the kitchen counter, locked the door, and retreated to the master bathroom. It was a sturdy room, he knew, removed from both the hall and the outer side of the building. It would be safe. Wasn't that what they always told you about tornados, hide in an inside bathroom? This storm, he knew, would be fiercer than any tornado, so the same advice applied.

Heart pounding and lungs gasping for air after the unusual, panicked activity, he clutched the cookies for reassurance. After a few seconds' deliberation, he turned on the bathroom light, just so he wouldn't have to sit in the darkness.

Good, good. He'd be safe for now. He'd done everything he needed to. Hadn't he? He reviewed his actions, because something was suddenly bothering him.

Why had he locked the door twice?

In that moment of confusion, irresistibly strong hands pinned Fitzhugh's arms to his sides. The package of cookies slipped from his hands and fell to the floor, scattering crumbs across the tile. A rasping voice behind Fitzhugh whispered, "I told you that you would pay for your lies."

Before Fitzhugh could respond in any way, a cold, intense pressure erupted in his back and belly, and then emptiness took its place. Red liquid splattered across the wall in front of Fitzhugh's eyes. Vertigo took Fitzhugh in its talons, but he couldn't move any more than before. He looked down in a daze. A long, skinny, segmented red appendage protruded from his ruptured abdomen.

Strength fled from his body, and it was suddenly hard to stand. Only the grip on his arms kept him from falling. Then there was a "shnk" sound, the red appendage retracted, and the pressure on his arms vanished. He tumbled to the floor like a house of cards.

There was pain, but not as much as Fitzhugh would have expected given the size of the hole in him. He didn't realize or appreciate that many of those nerves were no longer there. The green face of an animalistic reploid appeared in Fitzhugh's line of sight.

"You will die, now," the reploid said quietly, forcing Fitzhugh to concentrate to hear him. "You'll bleed out. Even if you plug the holes, your intestines are ruptured, and you'll hemorrhage to death. And you'll feel it happening—that's why I avoided your spine. I wanted you to experience this moment richly."

The reploid leaned in closer as his voice got still quieter. "So now, as you lie there and die, think about how many lives your words ruined. Think about how many atrocities your words justified. Think, as you expire. In the end, you'll see—justice has been done today."

The green, lizard-like reploid stepped over Fitzhugh's body and opened the door. With a final, deadly glance backwards, he bent the handle until it could no longer turn. There would be no escape even if Fitzhugh did recover his ability to move. Then the reploid's body shimmered, rippled, and vanished. The door closed, seemingly of its own accord, as good as locked.

And Professor Fitzhugh died.

Slowly, in agony.


He was not the only one. Not nearly. The foremen at a warehouse in sector L-4 died. A reporter who had investigated the Maverick phenomenon died. Two teenaged girls who had dared try to get Sigma to dance for them died. The Department of Motor Vehicles was reduced to nothing but ash and glass. And more besides.

In the grand scheme of things, all of these petty murders were sidebars, distractions even. They slowed the Mavericks down as they tried to seize the critical pieces of infrastructure they, and the city, needed. They caused whole squads to come to a standstill while they waited for one of their number to settle a score.

But no one could restrain themselves. After suppressing themselves for so long, none of the Mavericks could show restraint when the rules were lifted. Like a compressed spring suddenly released, they lashed out with all the energy of their pent-up frustration.

Besides, Sigma wasn't showing restraint, either; two half-squads were going around the city, doing nothing but prosecuting his vendettas. When he didn't exercise discipline, none of his followers did.

In a way, this was a small blessing. It kept the Mavericks focused on individuals rather than groups, and so—after a fashion—reduced the death toll. The larger masses of humanity were not explicitly targeted. Not yet, at least. There'd be time for that later, when the Mavericks were firmly in control. Until then, the Mavericks streamed towards their objectives, pausing only to settle grudges.


Next time: The Cause