Battleship Raider, Paul Tomlinson [inspirational books for women .TXT] 📗

the truck’s cab. I hit the ‘start’ button. It was all electric but the engineers had given it a synthesised engine sound like one of those antique diesel rigs. There was even a little button on the steering wheel that could make it sound like you were revving the engine. And, of course, there was an airhorn.

The robot marched towards me. I guess it figured it could do more damage at close range. I put the truck in drive and moved to meet it.

In the massive empty space of the battleship’s hangar, we circled each other like fighters in the ring. Sitting high in the cab looking down at the robot, I felt for the first time like we were evenly matched. Man in machine versus man-made machine. I’d have been happier if the truck had a gun turret, but you can’t have everything.

I gunned the fake engine and nudged the nose of the truck forward. The robot dodged easily, reaching out and tearing off the fender. First blood to Big Red. I could imagine a crowd up on the hangar walkways cheering or booing depending on their allegiance. My truck was damaged, but I’d learned something important from this first skirmish. When I was in really close, the robot didn’t have a clear shot up into the cab – it couldn’t even see me.

The truck was built to withstand the rigours of working in the vacuum of space on the launch deck of a battleship. It had thick armour plating and the cab maintained its own atmosphere. There was also an ejection seat for the driver, identical to the one in a warbird. And this gave me an idea. The truck would be my weapon.

I backed it away from the robot, reversing towards the doors that opened onto the launch deck. The robot stood watching me. It raised the cannon and pointed it directly at the cab. I had a moment of déjà vu. I didn’t know what the top speed of the truck was – but the tyres spun when I jammed my foot down on the pedal. Its motor was designed to haul warbirds around. Unladen, I thought all of that power might be used for speed instead – the way they use if for truck racing.

The truck lurched forward, forcing me back into my seat. I was staring straight into the barrel of the robot’s cannon. It made no move to get out of the truck’s path.

I reached for the lever that would launch the ejector seat. My eyes flicked upwards, trying to judge the height of the hangar. I hoped I wasn’t about to be splattered across it.

Time seemed to slow. I saw a glimmer of light in the barrel of the robot’s cannon. I heard alarms sound as I pulled the ejection lever. I felt a blast of air as the roof was thrown up and away from the truck’s cab.

And then there was just an incredible force and my vision darkened. Hello oblivion.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The crash sounded like an explosion in the confined space of the hangar. When the echoes had died, all I could hear was the settling of pieces of twisted metal. And then there was an eerie silence. The cloud of dust that had been thrown up slowly settled.

I released the harness and climbed out of the seat. My ears were still ringing from the explosive force of the ejector mechanism. I walked toward the mangled wreckage cautiously. Watching and listening carefully. There was no sound except for a faint ticking – metal cooling and contracting or perhaps fluid leaking. I could not see the robot. The cab of the tractor was crushed against the wall and it looked as if the impact had driven the huge electric motor under the cab – probably a safety feature of its design. The back of the vehicle had gone up over the cab, hitting the wall and collapsing. The rear wheels were now in the middle of the pile of scrap.

The debris on the side nearest to me shifted slightly, settling into a new position. It shifted upwards again – as if the wreckage was breathing. No, not breathing. About to give birth. A large fist punched upwards out of the heap of mangled metal.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I backed away quickly, keeping my eyes on the fist.

A shoulder, then the head. There was barely a scratch on the robot. How could that be? If I drive my Trekker to the market it gets scratched and dinged in the car park if anyone even looks at it. I’d just driven a twelve-ton truck at this robot and it came out looking like it has just been detailed. Maybe my Grandpa was right and they just made things better back then. The second arm appeared above the scrapheap – the one with the cannon.

“Oh, squit!” I dived for cover behind the gutted warbird.

But there was no explosion. Cautiously I peeked out, wondering if the robot was trying to trick me into revealing my location.

The robot was completely free of the wreckage now. It was looking closely at the cannon, which had either malfunctioned or run out of ammo. What a shame. With its right hand, it gripped the left arm at the back of the cannon near the elbow joint. A twist and a click and the cannon was removed. The robot turned it and looked down the barrel. It would have been great if, at that exact moment, the gun had fired and blown the robot’s head off. But that only happens in cartoons. Whatever damage the cannon had suffered must have been serious, because the robot set the weapon on the ground at its feet. Reaching back over its shoulder, it retrieved a replacement weapon from the sheath on its back. A blade that looked like a giant cleaver. The robot slotted this into place in its left arm. It brandished the blade menacingly and then swung it. The