The taxi glided silently past the large brushed copper data tree near the university’s entrance, its dull surface catching the glow of nearby streetlights. Beata barely spared it a glance. A decade ago, she might have paused to admire how its angular form symbolised technical knowledge and growth. Now, it was just a ghost of a life she’d left behind.

  The taxi halted, and she stepped out, boots striking the pavement with a muted thud. The access panel on the grand double entrance doors was wrecked, its electronic lock splintered by gunfire.

  She stepped inside. The halls unfurled before her, vast and silent, the acrid tang of disinfectant thick in the air. Her boots reverberated off the polished floors as she moved past darkened labs and locked lecture rooms. A decade back, she’d roamed these corridors as a computer science professor, her exchanges with Viktor morphing from measured debates into late-night, coffee-stoked arguments. He’d taught AI alignment and ethics, forever looping back to one question: If robots take all labour, what’s left for human purpose?

  Beata had never lost sleep over it. Technology marches on. We adapt. But Viktor had seen shadows in that march.

  She reached the robotics wing. The lock on the heavy doors had been blasted apart, bullet casings scattered across the floor. Inside, rows of assorted commercial humanoid robots stood dormant in their charging stations along the side walls, their faceplates blank and lifeless. Terminals and dangling teleoperating harnesses flanked each unit.

  At the start of the devil’s hour, Beata had recognised her tormentor in the drone footage. Now, as the unholy hour came to an end, she stood facing the devil himself across the room—Viktor.

  He was arranging equipment with his usual obsessive precision, a machine pistol resting on a nearby desk.

  Close by, slumped in a chair—Asta.

  Wrists bound, mouth gagged, a fresh black eye shadowing her delicate features. Yet when her eyes met Beata’s, they shifted—not with fear, but with a pleading misery.

  Beata locked onto her gaze, delivering a slow, resolute nod. I’m here. I’ve got you.

  Asta shook her head quickly, a warning flickering in her expression.

  Hands in her pockets, Beata quickly considered drawing her gun and firing across the room before he clocked her presence. But as she tried to decipher Asta’s silent plea, it was too late. Viktor snatched his weapon and trained it on her. A storm of emotions—chiefly anger—swept across his face as recognition hit. He peered past her, saw no one else, then fixed a grimace and swung the gun towards Asta.

  Beata kept her right hand on the gun in her pocket, slowly easing the drive out with her left.

  “I have brought what you wanted, Vitya.”

  “Good. Bring it here,” he replied, gesturing to the terminal he’d been prepping.

  Her grip tightened briefly on the concealed gun as she calculated her next move, but she withdrew her hand and strode across the cavernous room. At the terminal desk, she set the drive facedown, concealing the password lock screen, then glanced at Asta—mere metres away—before meeting Viktor’s stern glare.

  “Here it is. Now let her go. Point the gun at me.”

  Viktor scoffed. “She is fine where she is until I see the code working.”

  Beata studied him, tracing the fury in his eyes, the downward twist of his lips, every etched line on his face, before speaking. “What is this all about?”

  Viktor’s eyes glinted as he leaned in, his words slicing through the air. “Machines have replaced workers. Workers become useless, lost, and lazy; the global population is shrinking. The world is broken—I need to restore purpose, to wake people up.”

  She shook her head, her voice steady. “That is an old argument. You sank into that twisted philosophy ten years ago. What has changed now?”

  His gaze darkened further, a shadow crossing his features. “Twisted?” He clenched his jaw, his voice tightening. “You leaving your husband for another woman—that is twisted.”

  Beata’s stare didn’t waver. “I left you because you were growing paranoid and fanatical, and finally because you struck me in the dining hall in front of the whole faculty over an imagined slight,” she replied. “I met Asta later, and you have known that all along. So I will ask again—why now?”

  Viktor flinched slightly at the memory of that strike, discomfort flickering across his face. He cast a glance at Asta, trembling in the chair, her black eye deepening. Then he turned back to Beata. “I found others who share my views, back in the Motherland. We have been crafting plans to rebuild our country, to unite the people and the republics into a strong, whole Russia again.”

  “That is for politicians to debate over. The republics have no fight left.”

  He nodded, a bitter edge in his agreement. “The United Nations and their Western puppet masters have dismantled everything. After the KPA was crushed, no one is left to take up arms. The New Workers Parties are weak, but we found an Asian partner who despises the West as much as we do.” He lifted his chin. “A single poetic idea took shape—we can crush capitalism and restore power to the people in one glorious moment, using their own robotic tools to expose how dangerous they are, how subjugated we have become.”

  Beata narrowed her eyes. “How did you come up with that idea?” Suspicion honed her voice—she sensed a direct connection.

  His proud stance wavered, his head dipping slightly. “I came to see you last year. To… address the mistakes of the past.” He cast a fleeting glance at Asta. “I have known where you lived for some time. Years ago, I saw you both walking back from the theatre and followed you.” His head sank lower with the admission. “So when I visited recently, I waited until someone opened your apartment block door and slipped in behind them. I asked a neighbour where your place was, and when I reached your floor, she was returning with groceries. I was about to introduce myself, but the door swung open, and I expected to see you—only it was a robot with an absurd moustache, with a gun in a holster.” Rage flashed across his face. “Not only did you replace my love to lay with a woman, you stripped away the last masculine role of protector and gave it to a thing.”

  “Oh, Vitya, what has happened to you?” Beata murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow.

  He leaned closer, sneering. “Man is being replaced, and I will not let that happen. Connect that drive and give me control of these robots as a test, if you both want to leave here alive.” He shook the gun towards Asta for emphasis.

  Beata nodded slowly and began hooking the drive to the terminal, activating the system. She deliberately left it locked, scowling as she unplugged and replugged it a few times, feigning trouble with the setup.

  “What is wrong?” Viktor snapped, impatience flaring as he swung the gun back to her.

  Beata leaned over the desk, inspecting the cables he’d connected earlier. “You have messed something up. You were never good at this,” she said, her tone cutting, belittling his efforts.

  Viktor bristled instantly. “It is all correct,” he barked, jerking his head to check his work. His distraction pulled the gun’s barrel away from her.

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  In that heartbeat, Beata yanked her gun from her pocket and aimed it at his half-turned face. “Do not think. Put the gun on the desk and step back, or I will kill you. Now!” Her command rang with lethal intent.

  Another wave of emotions surged across his face, settling into a sneer. He lowered the machine pistol and stepped back as ordered.

  “A trick. More gaslighting from Beata—how typical,” he spat with scorn.

  “Step further back, Vitya, or I will shoot.”

  “No,” he replied calmly, an odd certainty in his stance. “If you kill me, she dies.”

  Beata’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

  “I am wearing a dead man’s switch, and she is wearing a bomb.”

  Beata glanced at Asta, who nodded sadly.

  “Show her the bomb,” he smirked.

  Asta shifted awkwardly, revealing where her dress had been sliced open partway. A dark grey, bowl-shaped device clung to the bare skin of her back.

  “A shaped charge, courtesy of my Asian partners,” Viktor said, jabbing a finger at Beata. “They will be here soon, and if you do not do what they want, they will not be as merciful as I am. So do not think—toss the gun aside and set up that drive, or I will kill her. Now!” His voice matched her earlier deadly tone.

  She angled the gun at his knee. “I do not have to kill you—I can still hurt you. Deactivate the explosive.”

  “You hurt me long ago, Beata,” he said dryly. “Hurt me again, and I will just shout the trigger word. She dies anyway.”

  Doubt clouded her face.

  “What are you going to do—shoot out my tongue to stop me talking?” he mocked, stepping forward with a smirk. “That would be quite the trick.”

  Her resolve wavered as he slowly retrieved his gun. Reluctantly, she flung hers to the floor with a clatter.

  Viktor smiled, then struck her face hard with his free hand.

  Beata took the stinging blow, her lip splitting, a thin stream of blood trailing down her chin. She fixed him with a glare of pure malice, then, with grim resignation, flipped the drive to expose the lock screen. She entered the complex password, and the terminal sprang to life, lines of code cascading down the display as Viktor watched, straining to follow the elegant structure. Beata wove her malware into a firmware update and pushed it to all the commercial robots lining the room, rousing them from standby.

  “It is done,” she said reluctantly, standing as tall as her short stocky frame allowed, fixing him with a determined stare. “If you go through with this and kill us, Emz will hunt you down and end you.”

  Viktor scowled at the unfamiliar name, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “One of the men you sent after me?” He darted a look at the entrance, then at the rear door nearby. “Well, he failed.”

  Beata held his gaze. “He got close, though, did he not? Despite all your careful planning, he found you, killed your men, and nearly had you. He is coming.”

  Viktor flinched at the reminder, though he shrugged it off with a scowl. “He is not coming. He does not know this place or who I am,” he said firmly, confidence returning. “You did not tell him—typical Beata, thinking you can handle everything alone. Otherwise, they would have arrived with you.” He smirked. “If they kept following that road we were on, they would be in Rauschen by now.”

  Beata weighed his words. “You are right—I did not tell him. But Emz is smart and tenacious. He will come. He will end you.”

  Viktor laughed. “If he is so smart, where is your Emz now?”

  “Right here, motherfucker!” Emz roared as he and Bamba burst through the entrance.

  Bamba’s rifle cracked sharply, a bullet slamming into Viktor’s machine pistol with a shattering clang, wrenching it from his grip and sending it clattering across the floor.

  Both men levelled their weapons at Viktor’s stunned face as Beata lunged forward, arms outstretched. “Do not shoot—he has a bomb!”

  Her sudden cry halted them, giving Viktor a fleeting moment to roar at the room. “Robots, protect me! Stop them! Kill them!”

  The twelve robots lining the walls sprang into eerie, synchronised motion. The nearest six clustered around Viktor, forming a protective wall. Three others surged toward Bamba. The mercenary drove his rifle butt into the chest of the closest, sending it staggering back, then fired a burst at a guarding robot’s head—tat-tat-tat—dropping it as his remaining two robotic attackers closed in. Metal and plastic hands grasped at his weapon, his throat; a quick mechanical fist shot toward his heart, another swung for his temple. He twisted inward just enough to evade full hits, catching one high on his armoured chest while the other grazed the back of his skull with a rattling blow. Bamba let out a guttural growl.

  To his side, Emz flicked his eyes across the chaos. Viktor was dragging Asta from her chair, flanked by his remaining five robot guards. Emz couldn’t reach them without handling his own robotic threats first. He shredded his nearest attacker with an SMG burst—braap-braap—watching it collapse, only for the second robot to lunge, its mechanical hands grasping.

  Beata lunged for the drive on the desk before Viktor could snatch it. Her fingertips brushed it, almost relocking the device, when a robot grabbed her long silver hair and wrenched her back with force, its sleek fingers hovering, ready to plunge into her neck.

  Viktor grabbed the drive, ripped out the cable, and retreated towards the rear door, dragging Asta as she fought against his grip. His guard robots marched in step, keeping him screened.

  Bamba cross-checked his two grappling assailants away with a horizontal two-handed rifle thrust, breaking the hold on his throat. One held fast to his rifle, so he let it go, swiftly drew his handgun, and fired—blam-blam—taking out another of Viktor’s guards, its faceplate a ruin of shattered plastic and circuits.

  Emz caught Beata’s peril and fired at her attacker—braap-braap. It crumpled, dragging her down by her hair as it fell. His own second robot attacker grabbed his gun arm and throat, squeezing his windpipe. Unable to angle his SMG inwards, Emz snatched an EMP puck from his vest with his left hand, flipped the switch, and pressed it to the robot’s head. It heated rapidly, then discharged a pulse of electromagnetic radiation, stuttering the robot’s motors and knocking it offline. The machine toppled backward, its grip scraping his neck and arm as he wrenched free, coughing from the chokehold.

  Bamba took down his first attacker—the one he’d smashed in the chest—blam-blam—before it could re-engage, then quickly raised his recently healed left arm to painfully block his stolen rifle as the second robot swung it fast at his head. At the same instant, the third robot lashed a hand around, targeting the side of his neck. He dropped his chin and hiked his right shoulder, absorbing the blow.

  Viktor vanished through the rear door with Asta and his four remaining robot guards. Emz wanted to pursue but rushed to Beata instead, crouching to untangle her hair from the wrecked robot.

  “Where’s the bomb?” he asked urgently, wrestling with the mechanical grip, his voice hoarse from the choking.

  “On Asta’s back. He says he has a dead man’s switch and a trigger word too. I think he is telling the truth,” she replied, finally free. She spotted her discarded pistol and scrambled for it on hands and knees.

  Emz glanced at the exit, then at Bamba, before eyeing the warped EMP puck in his hand, reeking of ozone and scorched circuits. “Will an EMP stop the dead man’s switch or the bomb?”

  Beata stood, gun in hand, weighing his words. “I do not know. It might—but it could set it off too. Too risky. We need to make him remove it.” She glanced at the exit. “We have to catch him now—he’s got Asta and the drive with the code, and he said more men are coming.” She started for the door.

  Emz followed but paused, calling out, “Beata!” She stopped. “Will that shocked robot reboot with the malware?”

  “Yes,” she replied curtly, confusion flickering over her face at the reason for the question, her urgency to pursue Asta palpable.

  “Can you turn it into Hugo?”

  The follow-up question made her freeze and turn.

  “Ah… Yes, I could. The malware is mostly Hugo’s code—I would just need to upload some command instructions.” Her mind raced, her fingers unconsciously brushing the mobile device in her trouser pocket.

  “The helicopters are on their way!” Luki’s voice called out through their earbuds. “I did not see them take off, but I tapped into a coastal buoy’s camera—they just passed it. You have got about twenty-five minutes!”

  “Okay. Luki, watch along the side of the building for Viktor and Asta—don’t let them reach his copter if they step outside!”

  Bamba push-kicked one robot away, then headbutted the other wielding his rifle, denting its faceplate and knocking it back. He fired at the kicked one—blam-blam—dropping it.

  Emz guided Beata to the offline, EMP-blasted robot. “I’ll hold Viktor up. Get Hugo online, have him sneak around the building, and be ready for my signal.” He gently wiped blood from her chin, then smeared it in a circle around one of the robot’s optical sensors, like a monocle. “So Asta recognises him,” he explained.

  As Emz laid out the plan, Bamba dodged a wild swing from the last relentless robot, its stolen rifle arcing like a club. He let it pass, then shoulder-charged the machine, toppling it to the floor.

  “For fuck’s sake, Bamba, finish it off—we’ve got to go!” Emz shouted from the rear exit.

  Bamba gritted his teeth, fury flashing in his eyes, and blasted the prone robot as it tried to rise—blam-blam. He reclaimed his rifle and joined Emz at the door.

  Keeping his voice low enough that Beata wouldn’t hear, he said, “Emz, we cannot let that code get out, whatever happens. A world full of these monsters is the end.”