Justice

It was sundown when the gang finally left the town of Made smouldering behind them.  The laughter, which a few short minutes ago had chilled the cores of a dozen working girls at Rosie's Palace and made children quiver in their hiding places, echoed between the hills, settling into silence with the clouds of dust thrown up by their machines.

Their leader rode out in front atop a contraption that belched black smoke into the air with every revolution of the engine, mingling with the dust thrown up by thick wheels.  The other members of the gang spread out in some vague semblance of a formation behind him, each aboard their own two-wheeled device, avoiding the blinding, choking trails left by their fellows.  They rode in this fashion for an hour or more until the leader waved his arm at some high ground off to their right.  As a unit, they swerved and powered toward the shelter of a bluff that served as their campsite while they were in the area.

As the noise of the engines died and the droids began to dismount, the leader thought back over the last month; they had hit every major settlement in the surrounding land, some of them more than once.  Pickings were getting slimmer and it was coming toward the time when they should be thinking about moving on.  Further to that concern was the worry that one or two of his boys had started forming familiarities with the girls in Made; they'd hit the town a few times and it was getting harder to make them leave when the time came.

The nights had been viciously cold lately, so they set about building a fire from the remains of a tool shed they'd dismantled and brought with them from Made.  Sherman broke some of the larger pieces over his thickly-armoured cranium before tossing them onto the pile, then sat with the others as Blades got the fire started.  It wasn't much, but it would stop their joints freezing up overnight.  As usual, Whistler started piping a simple melody through his voice box as they passed around a bottle of expensive and pleasantly corrosive coolant they'd liberated from the bar at Rosie's Palace.

"Y'see that look on my whore's face when we pulled inta town today?" asked Spark, the smallest of the gang.  He'd been mistaken for a boy droid so often that the others would sometimes catch themselves thinking of him as a little brother or a son.  Then they'd ride through a town and would be reminded of the things this 'boy' could do.

"Surely did, bud" replied Blades.  "Reckon she gettin' used to the sight of yous."

"Yeah" supplied Sherman.  The big droid rarely contributed much more to a conversation, clearly having been built for sheer physical power alone.

"Don't take 'em long to learn we only rough up those as deny us our fun" Spark continued.  "Hell she didn't even scream this time."

"Maybe yer gettin' soft in yer old age, Spark" Blades teased.  "'Fore long she won't even fear ya no more, then she may start fightin' back.  Or worse."

"Worse?"

"She might start makin' talk about settlin' down with yous, maybe startin' a family."

"Aw, shut up Blades ya dumb can.  She got sense enough to not start that kinda talk wi' a droid like me."

"Hell, boy, sounds like yer pretty sweet on her yer own self.  Sure ya don't wanna just jack this life in and settle down with yer wide-eyed whore?"  The words were barely out of his vocal systems as Spark leapt across the blazing fire, hitting Blades in the chest and setting a pistol to his head.  Blades looked at him square in the optics, his metal face-plate bearing no expression.  Spark felt the scrape of a sharp metal point in the centre of his back.  Neither droid struck, but neither wanted to be the first to back down.

"'Scuse I, gents, but could ya possibly keep the horseplay to a minimum?  You're intrudin' upon m'thoughts."  As a droid, they turned to see the Boss unerringly training a shotgun at each of them.  Neither had seen him move.  Slowly and carefully they disengaged themselves from their striking postures and settled back into their seats.  Their leader had already stowed his weapons back in his voluminous coat, and sat with his feet stretched out toward the fire.  Sliding the visor down over his optical strip, he tipped his hat forward to cover most of his face.  Nevertheless, Spark dared not even cast a sour glance in Blades' direction, and the gang passed the coolant around until the bottle was drained, the only sound the low melody played by Whistler.

- - - - -

The sun was high by the time the gang left their camp the next day, and their leader was in a foul mood.  He'd been ready to break the news to the boys as soon as they were awake that they wouldn't be going back to Made; yet here they were, engines roaring, riding back to that tin pot town just as fast as they could.  The change of plans had come about as a result of Sherman's apparent inability to handle the expensive coolant they had taken the previous day; his insides were close to complete shutdown, and he needed patching up urgently.  So they rode back to Made.  Not one of them spoke on the way.  They knew the Boss wasn't in the mood for conversation, and nothing needed to be said after he had laid out the plan back at camp.

It wasn't long before the town became visible as a small dark smudge on the horizon, swiftly growing in size and clarity until they were passing the first scatter of buildings.  Weapons were drawn by every spare hand in the gang, and they powered towards the main crossroads at the centre of town.  Every window and every door was shut and bolted tight; there was no way it would stop the gang going wherever they pleased, but the droids behind each door prayed to the Maker that it would keep attention away from them.

It was surprising to the gang, then, to be met by a determined-looking group on the steps of Rosie's Palace, which dominated the central crossroads.  They outnumbered the gang by around three to one, but the weapons they carried were rudimentary at best, and for the most part were held inexpertly.  As the gang pulled to a stop twenty paces from the townsfolk, the tall figure at their front stepped forward and called out.

"We've had just about enough trouble from you boys in recent times, and I'd take it as a kindness if y'all would turn yerselves around and ride right out again."  The Boss fixed him with an expressionless gaze from his optical strip as he dismounted from his bike and drew his second shotgun from the holster at its side.

"Doc Cobalt, that you?"  he shouted across the intervening space.  "Just the man we came to see.  Seems Rosie's paintstripper don't agree with the inner workin's of young Sherman here.  He needs patchin' up somethin' fierce."

"Aw well I'm mighty sorry t'hear that, but I'm afraid he's just goin' t'have t' die screamin' like yer kind deserve.  And don't think fer a second yer so pretty that I ain't lookin' at yer boys spreadin' out behind ya.  Y'all keep this little meetin' of ours civil and we'll do the same."  The Boss laughed.

"I'm thinkin' ya ain't got nearly enough metal behind ya t'be makin' threats like that, Doc.  I'm also thinkin' ya don't know m' gang as well as ya should by now."  Before the Doc had a chance to process what that might mean, the Boss gestured at a female droid on the steps behind him.  "That yer wife?"  A shot split the dusty air and the Doc's wife crumpled into a heap at the bottom of the steps, causing some of the others to run off and some to scream in alarm.  The Boss smiled mirthlessly, and called out.  "Thank ye kindly, Whistler.  That was indeed a masterful shot."  Keeping hold of the moment, he then gestured at the remaining townsfolk gathered on the steps, now shifting nervously and scanning the rooftops.  Some of the hardier were training their weapons on the rest of the gang.  "We got no quarrel with the rest o' y'all" he called to them.  "T' tell the truth we were plannin' on leavin' yer town alone fer good 'fore Sherman got his workin's all in a twist.  That's still the plan once we get him fixed, so why don't y'all just head on home and leave the Doc here t' patch us up?"

A minute later, only three droids stood on the steps behind the Doc, one of them searching his wife for signs that she lived.  The Doc himself hadn't moved or spoken since she had been shot, but now he raised his head to look straight at the Boss.  "There ain't nothin' ya can do t' make me patch yer boy up.  Kill me if y'like, it's gonna do ya exactly no good."

"I figured on ya sayin' somethin' along those lines, Doc.  Spark, the two on the left, if ya please."  In an instant, Spark's two pistols had fired and two of the three droids on the steps lay lifeless beside the Doc's wife, bullet holes straight through their primary processing units.  "Blades, if you'd do the honours" he continued.  The droid approached the steps slowly, drawing his diamond-edged blade from the sheath across his back.  The remaining droid on the steps nervously pointed his pistol at him and got a shot off, but Blades was in the air, leaping high out of the path of the bullet and landing behind the hapless droid.  The blade flashed in the afternoon light, and his target froze.  Blades had severed the motor lines from his head, leaving the young droid alive but helpless, unable to move.  The Boss approached the Doc, spurs clinking and boots kicking up tiny clouds of dust.  "I understand that's yer eldest right there" he said quietly as he came to a stop.  "He'll come to no more harm just as long as you do as I tell ya.  First, give me yer weapon."

"Sure thing," said the Doc, swinging it with great force at the Boss' head.  The droid didn't flinch, and a moment later three bullets converged on the centre of the courtyard.  Spark had sent one through each of the Doc's hands, and Whistler's bullet had caught the top of the pipe, spinning it out of his grip.  The Boss stepped in close to the Doc, who stared him square and unflinching in the face-plate as oil poured from the holes in his hands.

"Doc, I'm askin' nicely.  Patch up my boy, or yer gonna find out just what happens when ya get me riled."

- - - - -

The Doc's workspace was a large room behind his office, with two steel tables in the centre and tools covering the walls.  Sherman hefted his great bulk onto one of the tables when instructed, and lay still while the Doc started unbuttoning the large droid's shirt with his bandaged hands.  "You're damn lucky those bullets didn't mess with my workin's none," he commented as he opened Sherman's chest panel.

"Less yappin' more fixin', Doc" the Boss responded, his shotgun leveled at the head of the Doc's eldest.  The rest of the gang kept lookout for any other townsfolk that might come by, but they were undisturbed for a full hour until finally, the Doc reported that his work was finished.  "'Bout time," muttered the Boss as he pushed the Doc's son onto the other table.  "Now you can go ahead and fix up yer boy.  Like I said, we won't trouble this dirt hole no more."

"I believe that" the Doc replied.  Sherman rose steadily from the table and swung his legs around, allowing the Boss to lead him from the room.  Just as they reached the doorway to the office, the large droid reached out and deftly flicked the Boss' shutdown switch.  There was a thud as he hit the floor, and Sherman stepped over the body and left the office.  The others caught sight of him as he came out, and followed him outside asking if everything had been fixed.  Ten paces from the front of the shop, Sherman detonated with a deafening sound, scattering parts of himself, Spark, Blades and the Whistler across the road.  The Doc surveyed his handiwork, and turned to the lifeless form of the Boss on the floor.  "Well then, ya son of a two-bolt whore, let's see what we've got for ya here."

- - - - -

The sun had set over Made when the Doc finally emerged from his workspace to face the crowd that had warily gathered outside following the explosion.

"People of Made," he announced.  "This gang will trouble us no more.  What you see around you is the wreckage of four of its members, and their leader is on my workbench, immobilised but conscious, with a corrosive substance in his systems where once there was power fluid.  He's connected to an external power source which should keep him runnin' long enough to experience the full agony of the slow death I've awarded him for what he done t' us.  My estimate is that it will take a good week for the corrosion to reach his core systems, and I think you'll agree that this is but a taste of the justice he deserves."

The crowd cheered as he'd hoped they would; they'd known too many horrors at the hands of the gang to be bothered by the slightest wish for mercy.  He knew he had done the right thing, and any doubts he had felt before melted in the face of the townsfolk's support of his decision.  There was a click behind him, then his head shattered.

- - - - -

Don't ask me how come I knew what I knew when all else was lost to me.  I woke up on a steel table with no idea who I was, and yet I knew well enough that the table was made of steel didn't I?  I didn't know how I'd got to where I was, nor where the pain was comin' from, but I knew how t' run the diagnostics t' tell me what needed fixin'.  Couldn't tell ya a single Maker-forsaken thing about my past, but I knew how t' cut the kid on the table next to me t' get what I needed.  Couple o' things became clear once I left the room, however, when I heard that droid outside explain what he'd done t' me.  Couldn't speak as t' the truth o' what he said about my crimes, but I figured one good turn deserved another.

Seems his estimates was well off too; that corrosive stuff he filled me with must'a had some power to it, 'cause I sure as rust felt up t' killin' all those as didn't run fast enough.  Couldn't see a way t' fixin' what he did t' me, though, but I didn't seem t' be ready t' kick off quite so soon as he'd hoped.

Guessin' this town won't keep me in repair for too long, though.  Sooner or later, I'll have t' head out t' the wastes and try my luck there.