Hell's Gate

up, gasping to get air into his aching lungs, massaging his sore throat. Now, as his watering eyes cleared, he could see what had thrown the mechanical off balance in the last moments before its success. Intrepid had bolted down the stairs (or had stumbled) and had leaped into the battle without a single reservation. He had his teeth sunk into the robot's neck, his claws scrabbling on the broad back. The mechanical stood, swaying, and tried to shake the beast off. It reached behind itself and pounded a heavy fist into the furious mutt. Intrepid squealed with pain but held on, Seemed to chew his teeth in more deeply.
        After a few more useless attempts to dissuade that noble canine, the robot stood, wavering under the weight of the mongrel and the fury of his attack, pointed his laser at Salsbury and fired, realizing his duty was not to himself, but to the masters who had sent him to kill.
        Salsbury rolled, came in under the destructive swath of golden light. Behind, the sofa whuffed with the beam boring its interior. The corded covering caught fire. The flames illuminated the room, sent dancing shafts of light off the mechanical's pale skin, off Intrepid's bristled fur.
        The robot fired again.
        This time Victor did not move fast enough, slowed by the pain that still arced through him, by his certainty that a second shot could not come so fast, that the mechanical would have to orient itself. The beam seared his shoulder, sent fragments of flesh exploding outward. A shot any more direct would have burst him like a ripe fruit fallen from a tree. Blood dribbled down his arm, hot and sticky.
        The room swayed.
        He thought he heard Lynda shouting.
        He fell, came to his knees, agonizingly aware that he would have to move fast if he were to avoid the next burst. When he looked up, he was staring directly into the gleaming brass tip.
        Then there was the sound of the vibratube, and Salsbury waited for the worst. But it was not the mechanical that had fired. It was the target now, the gold illumination blossoming on its chest. It turned, seeking the source of the beam. When it found Lynda standing in the corner where the other tube had fallen, it raised its arm to shoot her.
        And it was all over.
        The robot's chest, under the concentrated beam from Lynda's tube, bulged outward, burst and spewed glass and wire and plastic shrapnel. It stood, eyes dimming through lighter and lighter shades of blue. When they were utterly dark, it toppled onto its face, dead as a machine could get, Intrepid still on its back with his teeth sunk into the artificial flesh.
        Salsbury started for the cellar steps, stepping around the dead machine, then remembered that it was Lynda who had the weapon, not him. His arm ached dully, and his head was spinning. He turned back to find her just as she came to him. “Give me the tube,” he said, reaching for it.
        “Why?”
        “Got to go down… see if there are more of them.”
        “I'll go along.”
        “You'll stay here,” he said, taking the tube from her.
        “Damnit, who killed the last one?”
        He looked to the mechanical that Intrepid still toyed with. He shook his head. “All right. Be careful.”
        They switched on the light and looked down the steps. There were no more mechanicals on them. They went down, Lynda behind and holding onto him. In the basement, they found nothing. The portal in the wall was gone again. After checking the basement three times, they went back upstairs and turned off the light, closed the door. The shooting was over. At least until tomorrow night.
        “Come on and let me look at your arm,” she said, dragging him into the kitchen. He followed like a dumb animal.
        He sat in a straight-back chair while she washed the burn. It was approximately two inches long, an inch wide, and an inch deep. That was a goodly sized chunk of flesh for anyone to lose, even for a man who seemed to heal miraculously fast. “I told you about healing so quickly,” he said. “It won't need medicines.”
        “I'm putting a dressing on it all the same.”
        “It's already stopped bleeding. It'll be heavily scabbed by tomorrow night and healed in a few days.”
        She ignored him, got alcohol, gauze and tape. By the time she had finished bandaging it, the pain was gone. They cleaned up the mess, made something to eat. They were both ravenous.