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Guardsmen Field Camp, Barton East, Barton

Conall closed his eyes and shifted on the hard bunk, trying to get comfortable. He wanted to go home.

It didn’t really matter what he wanted. His father had made that abundantly clear. Returning home now, only three weeks from completing his training, would only embarrass the family. His father was the fifth generation in a long line of Barton Regulars; Conall had no desire to be the sixth.

There was a rustle from the bunk next to him, followed by a snore. Conall ignored it, and almost missed the quiet tap <span id="test27273213">. . .</span><br/><div id="post27273213" style="display:none; margin-right:75px;"> at the window.

Eyes open now, he tensed, listening.

Tap.

Tap.

Scriiiiiitch.

Conall felt his body tighten under the sheet. That wasn’t ordinary night noise. Something was at the window, looking in. He held his breath.

Soft footsteps sounded, moving away from the barracks window. Exhaling sharply, Conall sat up, throwing a pillow at his bunk-mate to wake him. “Harold! Hey!” he hissed.

“Wha?” Harold half-sat, blinking sleepily in the moonlight.

“Scout outside the window,” Conall said tersely. His sheathed sword lay next to his boots beside his bed. As unobtrusively as possible, he leaned over and collected it, sliding it up to rest beside him on the cot.

Wide-awake now, Harold leaned over and punched Abdul, in the next bunk over, as Conall discreetly began to rouse the trainees on the other side of the barracks. Within moments, the entire garrison was awake and poised in the dark, waiting for an attack.

There was a muted grating sound, just audible from outside the north wall. Conall and Harold exchanged looks. Harold jerked his chin to the left.

Abdul, the lightest of the trainees, slipped off his cot at Conall’s nod and padded over to the barracks door, sword in hand.

“On my mark,” Harold said quietly. Abdul nodded. Conall could see trainees’ hands gripping their hilts tighter, shifting for better view.

“Ready…MARK!”

The door slammed open. Trainees poured out in nightshirts, a few barefoot, most booted and clutching swords.

A metallic hand clamped down on Conall’s wrist. He swallowed a surprised yelp and bashed the thing where a head should be with the hilt of his weapon. It took three blows to make it let go. Switching his sword to his other side and shaking out his left hand, Conall turned in time to see Abdul behead one of the metal creatures, sparks flying as steel sliced through steel.

The battle was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Harold stood silently over the motionless body of a disemboweled device. Conall joined him, wiping his sword on his nightshirt. “Robots,” he said grimly.

“They must have crossed the river from Aekea.” Harold pointed with the tip of his bootknife. “They could have come from the Southwest Gate, jumped the roadblock.” He traced the path in the air.

Conall wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It would be pretty easy for three robots to make it past the guards in the dark. Lots of space out there.”

“Just three?” Harold said thoughtfully, nudging a loose circuit with a booted tow. “Why not send an army?”

Conall suddenly felt cold. “Because one guard and six sleeping trainees are no match for three robots.”

Harold watched him uncomfortably. “You think the Guard trainees were the target?”

Conall stooped to pick up a metal hand. It twitched, a residual spark running down its length before fizzling out against his finger. “We’ve got an enemy somewhere.”</div>