Sally's Story: Eclipse

	The four officers advanced quickly, ground escaping beneath their trodding feet as the sporadic clap of gunfire grew louder, more ferocious. It snapped and clawed at them as they jumped from container to concrete palisade, each covering the other. Where they met resistance they swept it away with ease, exchanges of gunfire rocketing between abandoned steel crates loaded with now-ruined goods. The intensity of resistance only amplified as they came within two hundred meters of the chunky brick building which peeked and loomed over the colored containers, windows popped open and occasionally bleeding gunfire towards them, paffs of concrete or shattered asphalt peppering their faces as they sheltered where they could.
	“We’re close,” Vincent yelled over an especially irate hammering of fire. “They’re gonna keep on us for the rest of the way!” The duo of soldiers peered about, isolating, between ducks of the head and spirited language, their current attacker. Vincent and the men pushed ahead with practiced, if rusty, precision, barking orders and affirmations as they moved past each other.
	“Robot, come on,” the narrower of the two shouted backwards. She panted heavily, synthetic breath catching, sticky, in her throat, rasps of air muffled by the hellish zip of rifle rounds overhead. She jerked her head left, eyeing the waiting trio and hefting her long gun in hand. Ducking low she rushed up ahead to join the men before they worked up ahead again. They repeated this game of leapfrog, the robot nervously tailing behind and waiting on the all-clear before she anxiously jogged after them. Her fingers gripped the checkered furniture with care, lugging the heavy gun in her arms and swinging from side to side. Her engagement programming saved her the civilian embarrassment of trying to zigzag when running for cover, but not the ponderous movements of a small person carrying something too heavy for them.
	“Alright, we’re a short run from the front door of the bakery,” Vincent panted, shuffling further from the edge after a stray round clinged off the ground. “Once we get to the door things are gonna be heavy.”
	“Are you gonna be okay,” Mitchell said, turning to Sally. He recognized the look in her eyes, apertures narrowing and dazed. He shook her lightly. “Hey, stick with me here. When we get in there, it’s gonna be bad. But you gotta remember who you’re doing this for.” He gazed into her shivering eyes. She nodded assuredly, the bob of her head picking up pace until she was rocking it, whispering affirmations to herself as she stood up.
	“Let’s go,” she stomped, flinging herself from cover and beginning the mad, final dash for the front door of the factory. Commandeered bags of flour and any other factory detritus surrounded it. Unsure, young faces peered over the bags at the little group of people, dashing from spot to spot under fire, approaching them. The handful of older men whipped them to action, calling orders to their underlings with military gusto. Chattering semi-automatic fire raked the ground around them, youthful arms unaccustomed to combat not bothering to aim, only pointing and firing. They were in close, the scornful yelling of either party swallowed in each exchange of fire. Mitchell and Sally hung low and swept right, the dark factory windows above staring down at them, menacing.
	“Alright Sally,” he murmured to her, “Booker and Vince are gonna watch us but we gotta be the ones to get up there and give ‘em a chance to follow up.” Sober, the man was transformed. His shaggy beard was rugged, not perverse and sweaty like before, and his clear eyes beamed at the robot even through the intermittent smog choking the city as the fires continued to rage. He gestured in jerky waves of the hand, chopping the thick air and running her through every step they had to follow, down to the letter.
	“Let’s do it then.”
	“We gotta smoke em out first, thankfully you won’t have to deal with this, but,” he started, hefting a tear gas canister sparingly dropped in his hand by a handful of riot officers they’d come upon, “it’ll be bad for us.”
	“Wait!” She showed him her hand, the complex matrices and plates splaying open to show the nozzle neatly nestled in her wrist. Sterling knew these robots would be wielding guns, but erred (like always) on the side of caution, of preparedness. Mitchell eyed it warily, averting his gaze lest she accidentally blind him.
	“Alright then,” he clapped her on the back. “Let’s move.” The duo vaulted over their last shelter, just yards from the left side of the factory entrance. A low concrete wall surrounded the dense brick building, the pair rounding the spitting guns and finding themselves, mercifully, in one piece behind it. Mitchell winced briefly, miniscule fragments of asphalt peppering his ankle from the impact of bullets behind him. Blood oozed lazily from the skin, but he bit it back when he noticed the immense worry on the robot’s face.
	“Mitche-”
	“I’m fine Sally,” he grunted. “Just stings a bit- I’ve had worse, believe me.” Tossing his head up he pointed to the top of the low wall, more a stylishly dull fence than anything authoritative enough to keep people out. But, Mitchell popping his arms up to blind-fire a handful of rounds, it was perfect. Sally, less perturbed by the flurry of return fire after each sightless spray from the man beside, peeked over the edge, barrel resting on the concrete edge. She locked eyes with a man, giant lenses half-covering his face, holding a carbine one-handed. Unconsciously she brought the shotgun to bear, lining up the bead with his exposed chest. Like some antiquated arquebusier she leant hard into the shotgun, legs split into a triangle. A single, gentle squeeze on the trigger sent the man reeling, chest peppered in red gore as he crumpled. The sight sent her back under their little parapet in shock. She’d fired a gun in anger but never seen the aftermath, thinking now of how many rounds, and how many more bits of lead shot, she’d sent down that tunnel.
	“Oh, oh no-”
	“Hey,” he yelled, ducking down after another volley, “there’s no time for that!” He yanked her up by the arm and pointed at the smattering of kids with their hands raised.
	“O-Oh-”
	“Let’s go,” he yelled, a cry of agreement returning from the opposite end of the parking lot they’d been advancing across. Vincent and Booker rushed up to meet the two, the broken barricades littered with moaning or whimpering people.
	“Booker, you got it.”
	“Right.” The man broke away from Vince, scanning the faces of the defeated youths, suckered into a fight none of them knew of nor wanted. Of the dozen or so who’d been there two were wounded, badly and only one, much older, dead. “C’mon you bastards, let’s go.” He prodded them in the backs with the barrel of his rifle, parading them back and away from the factory’s entrance. He nodded his head at Mitchell who returned the gesture, the man disappearing into the maze of abandoned cars in the lot, and the dockyard beyond. Another little puff of concrete dust erupted from the ground as a poorly-aimed shot bounced from between the three of them. Scuttling up to the front door they braced for entry.
	“We ready?”
	“After you, Vince,” the other man grinned. “You know what we’re getting into here?”
	“Last time I had a tour of this place was elementary school.”
	“So no?”
	“No.”
	“Damn, hate this shit,” he spat. “Sally, you armored?”
	“Sorry wh- oh! Yes, I am Mitchell,” she patted her chest, proud of the fine Sterling engineering inside. “I’m rated NIJ III for-”
	“Sorry sugar, you’re gonna have to explain on the way- hear that?” The trunch of boots bounding along carpeted floors gently slipped out the open second floor window. He turned to her. “I want you on point, okay?” Nodding, the robot pressed open the door to the factory building.