Z14 Read Online Free
predict your defensive movements before you make them, remotely hack the hidden ceiling turret that was your last hope, and then end your life with the brutal efficiency that comes from an encyclopedic knowledge of your human frailties.
That's something that's got me worried – yeah, I know, that's a feeling – about this Warden thing: I'm built for the kill, possibly more than I'm built for anything else. I am definitely not a fucking toaster. So, does that mean I'm not here to protect? I have no overriding goal, no mission, no purpose. I came online in my cave one day roughly five years ago and just ‘decided’ to be an assassin, it ‘felt’ right and yet, something on the ‘human’ side won-through and only lets the kill-bot in me kill arseholes. Well, I try to, but hey, I'm only – sort of, kind of, partially, something like – human; we all make mistakes.
I switched my focus to the task at hand, scouring the 'net for information on Faran's farm. There was nothing under that name, which I had been expecting, so I called up a map image and centred it on the coordinates given on Doc Melon's contract. I just wanted to get an idea of the terrain around the farm in case this meeting turned out to be a trap. Once I got closer to the target, I'd be able to scan the area for unexpected and concealed biological or electronic surprises. Nobody on this planet had been able to get the drop on me so far – unless you counted Doctor Melon, all too literally – but I wasn't going to stop being careful. I couldn't stop being careful. It was in my blood and or my programming, please delete as applicable.
As I neared the farm I dropped my altitude to just a few feet from the ground and began scanning the buildings. No threats detected and just one heat signature that conformed to human parameters inside what was probably the farm's main dwelling.
This farm grew Boram Potatoes, which looked like red carrots, tasted like a cross between potatoes and onions and were utterly packed full of lots of the good things humans need to consume to function. They were the number one crop on the planet, utterly ubiquitous and used in most meals. They had soon gained the nickname Boring Potatoes, but they were essential to the continuation of human life on Deliverance. Still, I didn't think I was here to discuss alien spuds.
I landed on the outskirts of the farm, and strolled boldly through its open gate, heading for the heat signature that was pacing up and down inside the farmhouse. If this was a trap, it was one that I couldn't detect, so there was nothing I could do but proceed, whilst keeping my eyes, ears and multitude of other scanners open. The entire farm was constructed of old, dilapidated wooden buildings. ‘Ramshackle’ was the word to sum the whole place up. I reached the farmhouse door and gave it an experimental push with the palm of my left hand. It swung open and I walked in to find myself face-to-face with what until then had been merely a heat-signature on a virtual screen inside my mind. Farmer Faran was anything but a farmer. He wore a crisp suit and smart spectacles, shiny shoes and an ingratiating smile.
"Ah, Z14! Welcome, welcome," he said, extending a hand.
I eyed him up and down, looking for obvious weapons, or hints of concealed ones. Nothing. Still, I made no move to take his hand. I was analysing my peripheral vision, checking for threats.
"I know you're expecting a trap, Z14, but I'm not stupid. I like being alive." His hand remained extended towards me.
"Tell me about Doctor Harold Melon," I said.
"Well now, I'm not going to lie to you, I wouldn't be surprised if such a wonderful piece of technology as yourself could detect lies, after all. But, really, there is nothing to discuss about Doctor Melon, other than his termination." He started to drop his outreaching hand, but I stepped forward, grabbed it with one of my own and crushed every bone in it with one immense squeeze. Faran emitted an
That's something that's got me worried – yeah, I know, that's a feeling – about this Warden thing: I'm built for the kill, possibly more than I'm built for anything else. I am definitely not a fucking toaster. So, does that mean I'm not here to protect? I have no overriding goal, no mission, no purpose. I came online in my cave one day roughly five years ago and just ‘decided’ to be an assassin, it ‘felt’ right and yet, something on the ‘human’ side won-through and only lets the kill-bot in me kill arseholes. Well, I try to, but hey, I'm only – sort of, kind of, partially, something like – human; we all make mistakes.
I switched my focus to the task at hand, scouring the 'net for information on Faran's farm. There was nothing under that name, which I had been expecting, so I called up a map image and centred it on the coordinates given on Doc Melon's contract. I just wanted to get an idea of the terrain around the farm in case this meeting turned out to be a trap. Once I got closer to the target, I'd be able to scan the area for unexpected and concealed biological or electronic surprises. Nobody on this planet had been able to get the drop on me so far – unless you counted Doctor Melon, all too literally – but I wasn't going to stop being careful. I couldn't stop being careful. It was in my blood and or my programming, please delete as applicable.
As I neared the farm I dropped my altitude to just a few feet from the ground and began scanning the buildings. No threats detected and just one heat signature that conformed to human parameters inside what was probably the farm's main dwelling.
This farm grew Boram Potatoes, which looked like red carrots, tasted like a cross between potatoes and onions and were utterly packed full of lots of the good things humans need to consume to function. They were the number one crop on the planet, utterly ubiquitous and used in most meals. They had soon gained the nickname Boring Potatoes, but they were essential to the continuation of human life on Deliverance. Still, I didn't think I was here to discuss alien spuds.
I landed on the outskirts of the farm, and strolled boldly through its open gate, heading for the heat signature that was pacing up and down inside the farmhouse. If this was a trap, it was one that I couldn't detect, so there was nothing I could do but proceed, whilst keeping my eyes, ears and multitude of other scanners open. The entire farm was constructed of old, dilapidated wooden buildings. ‘Ramshackle’ was the word to sum the whole place up. I reached the farmhouse door and gave it an experimental push with the palm of my left hand. It swung open and I walked in to find myself face-to-face with what until then had been merely a heat-signature on a virtual screen inside my mind. Farmer Faran was anything but a farmer. He wore a crisp suit and smart spectacles, shiny shoes and an ingratiating smile.
"Ah, Z14! Welcome, welcome," he said, extending a hand.
I eyed him up and down, looking for obvious weapons, or hints of concealed ones. Nothing. Still, I made no move to take his hand. I was analysing my peripheral vision, checking for threats.
"I know you're expecting a trap, Z14, but I'm not stupid. I like being alive." His hand remained extended towards me.
"Tell me about Doctor Harold Melon," I said.
"Well now, I'm not going to lie to you, I wouldn't be surprised if such a wonderful piece of technology as yourself could detect lies, after all. But, really, there is nothing to discuss about Doctor Melon, other than his termination." He started to drop his outreaching hand, but I stepped forward, grabbed it with one of my own and crushed every bone in it with one immense squeeze. Faran emitted an
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