I tore through the grid and sprinted along the factory wall toward the rail line.
“Lord Blin,” I said as I ran, “could you do me a favor and stop the train?”
“Stop the train? How?”
“Blow the engine. Blow the track ahead of it. Whatever makes you happy.”
“Did your logic core short out? You want to go head-on with Phantom Forge over one tiny runt?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because… because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot. You’re going to get us boxed in.” There was a pause. “Ch-ch-ch. But I like it.”
I reached the tracks and ran them hard. Once I was outside DorianKen’s anti-air radar envelope, I lifted off.
Less than a minute later, Blin’s message snapped into my mind.
“Moron, you’d better hurry. I was a step late. The train’s already inside Smelter Mountain.”
“Then I’m coming.”
DorianKen sat close to Smelter Mountain. Before long I saw the vast smokestacks and the thick black plumes pouring from them.
The closer I got, the more rails branched out beneath me—spiderwebs of steel converging toward a single destination. A huge tunnel mouth opened at the end of the line.
And above it, two multi-barrel dual-purpose turrets had already tracked me—honeycombed barrels swiveling, trying to lead their shot.
The next second, both turrets vanished inside twin blossoms of fire.
“That’s as far as I can carry you,” Blin said. “More fighters are coming at me.”
“Thank you, Lord Blin. Stay alive.”
I dropped low—almost skimming the rails—and shot into the tunnel.
It ran for several hundred meters before the mountain swallowed me whole. Then the passage burst open into a cavernous interior—an entire mountainside carved out into an industrial throat.
Several freight trains sat on a wide, sawtoothed platform. Dozens of massive unloaders—seven or eight meters tall—moved among them, their crane arms scooping heaps of broken metal and dumping it onto broad conveyor belts. The belts fed through holes in the walls into whatever came next.
Half the scrap was already moving.
I froze.
How was I supposed to find one damaged maintenance bot in that?
Stop the belts, I decided.
My arrival had every unit on the platform turning. There were armed escorts among them—Exilers and Flamecallers—and they began to close in.
Smelter Mountain always kept combat units on-site, but not many. I dodged their lasers, surged up onto the platform, and drew both pistols. I raked fire across the conveyor gears.
Too thick. Too big. The damage was slow.
Because I’d ignored the attackers for even a moment, the unloaders joined in—swinging their claw arms like wrecking balls.
I holstered, drew my 2D Blade, and took the first claw clean off. I lunged forward, carved through the drive assembly, then finished the nearest unloader with a follow-up cut that dropped it like a felled tower.
“DR-F1209. There you’re.” An Exiler vaulted onto the belt and spoke—too calm.
Phantom Forge was looking through its eyes.
“Correct,” I said, and slashed at its leg. It leapt, plasma blade swinging. I slipped the strike and cut it in half.
A second Exiler flipped the belt and came at me in a wide horizontal sweep. I didn’t have time to reset my stance. I snapped my phase shield open, ate the impact, and used the contact to grab the Exiler’s torso. I shoved it into the narrow gap between the next set of gears.
It jammed for half a beat.
Then the machine chewed it.
Sparks. A grinding howl. The second belt shuddered and stopped.
Scrap lay everywhere—shattered robot frames, raw metal chunks, even brand-new units that had failed testing and been sent here to be re-melted.
My optics flicked across the first two belts. No CTR-4.
“CTR-4!” I climbed over to the third belt and shouted again. If it still had awareness, it would answer.
More Exilers and Flamecallers poured in.
I fought and called, fought and called—until the platform fell quiet. All six conveyor lines were wrecked and still.
But CTR-4 didn’t answer.
I tore through the halted scrap on the platform—through the trains, through the half-unloaded cars—nothing.
No time. I sprinted for the next section.
I didn’t get far before several units blocked my path. I heard the staccato click of electromagnetic rifles unfolding.
I lunged forward, slid behind a conveyor spine, and the air turned into a wall of metal and light. Impacts punched the scrap into flying fragments.
I couldn’t afford a firefight here. I returned fire while running for the end of the belt, then vaulted onto the conveyor and rolled—low, fast—straight through the wall opening.
The next chamber met me with more gunfire, but lighter than before. I tucked behind the first cover I found and scanned.
A circular hall. Several gigantic crushers arranged in a ring around a deep pit. Sorting bots worked the perimeter, separating scrap by shape and size, feeding each type onto its designated belt. Each belt ran into its matching crusher.
Behind them, the pit—an open furnace. The crushed metal fell straight down, melting into liquid.
Phantom Forge had harnessed the volcano’s underfire to build a furnace that never went out. That was why the mountain had its name.
Watching metal tumble into that bubbling glow, I lost whatever calm I had left.
I rose from cover and took the incoming fire head-on. My pistols cut down the few Exilers left, then the sorting units. One by one, I terminated them until the chamber was mine.
Then I searched—belt by belt—shouting into the vast hollow.
“CTR-4!”
My voice bounced around the mountain and came back distorted.
On the fourth call, a faint reply reached me.
“Wyatt… sir… is that you?”
I spun toward the sound.
CTR-4 lay on one of the belts—less than two meters from the crusher rollers, still inching forward. Heat warnings spiked through my system.
Three belts lay between us. I fired hard at the drive gear beside CTR-4. The assembly here was smaller than the platform’s—thank every buried engineer on this planet.
At the last possible moment, the gear shattered.
CTR-4’s head was nearly touching the rollers. A fraction more and it would’ve been pulled in.
I let myself exhale.
“That’s… amazing, Wyatt—” it began.
Then the situation mutated.
An Exiler I’d assumed dead—half its head missing—dragged itself upright. It grabbed CTR-4 and lurched toward the furnace.
My temperature alarms climbed again.
It didn’t make it three steps. I blew its legs out from under it.
It crawled anyway. When it saw me closing, it flung CTR-4 into the pit.
I went after it without thinking.
I ignited my flight engine and dove straight over the lip of the furnace. Heat slammed into me like a physical force. I caught CTR-4 an instant before it hit the liquid metal, then surged back up to the rim.
For one second down there, I’d felt my whole chassis starting to soften. Even now, my high-temperature alarm wouldn’t shut up.
CTR-4 sagged in my grip, its small claws limp. I ran a check.
Power drained. That was all.
“Wyatt?”
The voice came from the Exiler on the floor.
“Is that your new name, DR-F1209?”
It stared up at me with its last electronic eye.
“No matter what you call yourself, no matter where you run, I’ll—”
I cut it off with laser fire. One shot shattered the remaining eye. The next burst blew the head apart.
I didn’t linger. I ran for the exit.
I was exposed. Phantom Forge’s reinforcements would already be moving. The only smart choice was distance—fast.
I retraced my route out of Smelter Mountain and broke into open air.
I was about to lift off when—
“Boom!”
A Nightmare fighter slammed into the ground ahead of me and exploded into fragments.
I looked up.
The sky was chaos: a swarm of fighters chasing a single craft. Smelter Mountain’s defenses were gone.
“Lord Blin?” I pushed the link hard. “Are you all right?”
A few seconds later, his reply came back, almost pleased.
“Fine. Better than fine. Haven’t felt this in a long time—killing is fun again. Idiot, you’re out already? Did you succeed?”
“I did. I found him.”
“Good. Then get lost. I’ll come find you later. Let me play a little longer.”
“Uh… be careful.”
“Quit talking. Move.”
So I followed the tracks away from the mountain, keeping close to the ridge line so no stray patrol would spot me and ruin Blin’s mood.
Ten kilometers out, the roar of engines and missile impacts finally faded. I lifted off and flew to the place I’d hidden my ground-effect bike.
The moment I reached it, I connected CTR-4 to the power feed.
A few seconds later, it woke—slow and wary.
“Wyatt, sir…” CTR-4 looked around. “Am I… saved?”
“Yes. You’re safe.”
The last knot of fear in my system finally loosened.
“You saved me. That was… incredible. You made a miracle.” Its eyes flickered, whether from hesitation or low charge I couldn’t tell. “I’m the only robot who went into the furnace and didn’t turn into smoke.”
Then, quieter: “Wyatt, sir… are you taking me back to the factory?”
“CTR-4,” I said, “I just remembered something. My mission happens to be short a mechanic.”
I watched its flickering optics. “If you’re still willing… I want to invite you to travel with me.”