The plasma cannons gleamed as if they’d just rolled off the assembly line, chrome plating catching the sunlight. The only sound in the lab was the low hum of the Repair Bots’ ion thrusters.

  Derek’s brow furrowed. They had always been loyal, dependable, never once out of line. Now their cannons pointed straight at his chest.

  Ithara clasped her hands, eyes wide as saucers.

  He forced a crooked grin. “Well, hey there. Nice toys you’ve got.”

  NOVA lay dark and unresponsive. Even if the armor had powered up, there was no chance of reaching it before those cannons tore him apart.

  The Bots hovered in place, weapons locked on target.

  “Alright, I’ve seen the hardware.” His gaze narrowed. “You can put it away now. Wouldn’t want any… accidental discharges.”

  Their thrusters deepened to a growl. The two metal cylinders that had once been his lifeline dipped lower, drifting closer, closing every way out.

  He raised both hands and eased back a step. “Whoa, hey, you’re not still sore about that time I used you as bait, are you? It was a calculated risk. I knew you’d come out fine.”

  “Derek,” Vanda’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Their configuration has changed.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. Can you shut them down?”

  “Negative.”

  The Bots advanced until the cannon barrels hovered inches from his face.

  Oddly enough, calm settled over him. Logic said he should be panicking, but the thought of dying here felt distant, almost irrelevant. “They want something,” he muttered. “If they meant to kill me, I’d already be dead.”

  “What could they possibly want from you?” Vanda asked. “A polish on their barrels?”

  His eyelid gave a quick twitch. Maybe she wasn’t far off. “Scan their new weapon systems.”

  “Why would I—”

  “Just do it.”

  “…Fine.” A pause. “Running analysis.”

  Ithara edged closer, one careful step after another, toward the two floating cylinders holding him at gunpoint.

  What was she thinking? Planning to disable them with some pseudo-magical trinket? No way she’d manage it before they opened fire.

  She reached one of the Bots and brushed her hand lightly across its casing. Her eyes lit with wonder. “Your creations are… astonishing,” she whispered.

  Derek rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Why was he always surrounded by lunatics? “Ithara, back away. In case you missed it, they’re armed to the teeth and aiming at me.”

  She stroked the metal shell as if it were a puppy. “They don’t wish to harm you. They’re here only to help. And to do that, they need your help.”

  Derek’s gaze shifted from Ithara to the Bots and back again. As crazy as she sounded, she might not be wrong. “Vanda? Status?”

  “Analysis complete. Each Bot has installed a Light Plasma Repeater—LPR. It’s a lighter version of NOVA’s Multiphase Plasma Pulse Cannons, but with a higher rate of fire.”

  A sour twist pulled at his mouth. “Yeah, I know the model. What else?”

  “They’re… empty,” Vanda said.

  His hands dipped a fraction. “Come again?”

  “Yes, Derek. Unlike NOVA, the Repair Bots lack a QuadraCore Plasma Reactor. To fire those weapons, they need a direct plasma transfer from our reactor.”

  Ithara’s face lit with revelation. “That’s why they’re here! They need your armor’s energy to power their new weapons.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Derek frowned, jaw tight. “So I’m supposed to hand over plasma from my armor so they can… what? Shoot me with it?”

  Ithara stepped closer and clasped his hand. “No, you don’t understand. They want to defend you.” She motioned toward NOVA. “Now that you’re without your precious armor, your little golems did their best to arm themselves to stand in your defense.” Turning back to them, her eyes softened with something almost maternal. “They need your help… to protect you.”

  Derek froze. The barrels were still locked on his face, but knowing they were empty twisted the whole picture. They looked like kids rushing up with toy guns, pleading for him to reload them.

  Toy guns that spat plasma at twelve hundred rounds a minute.

  “Vanda?”

  “Yes, Derek?”

  “Any chance Ithara’s ramblings actually add up?”

  Vanda paused. “…I don’t have access to their internal logic algorithms. Based on behavior so far, I’d estimate a seventy-four percent probability they are acting with good intentions.”

  “And the other twenty-six?”

  “That they’re simply malfunctioning,” Vanda said. “Once you give them plasma, they’ll use it to kill you.”

  Derek cut a glance at Ithara. She beamed back at him, radiant, as if death by plasma barrage weren’t even on the table.

  His palm dragged down his face.

  “Derek?” Vanda pressed.

  “Yeah, I’m here. What happens if I don’t give them what they want?”

  “They’re Bots. Most likely they’ll just… keep asking.”

  He tilted his head back toward the ceiling. “Damn universe. For once, couldn’t you bother somebody else?”

  The Bots chirped—a sharp electronic squeal—then started swaying side to side.

  “Alright, alright…” Derek let out a long sigh. “Give them the plasma.”

  Ithara’s smile bloomed wider.

  He scowled. “Here’s hoping they shoot me. At least then I’ll finally get some peace.”

  A throat cleared behind him.

  He spun around.

  Erasmus Morchant stood in the doorway, stroking his beard. His ceremonial robes shimmered with gold embroidery, and his gaze swept over the wreck of the lab with a curl of disdain.

  “Erasmus,” Derek said flatly. “Always a pleasure.”

  The man arched a brow. “Really?”

  Derek shook his head. “You bringing news, or just the usual moral superiority?”

  He gave a short bow. “If the Cashnar will follow me to my quarters, I’ll be glad to illustrate what I’ve discovered.”

  Derek nodded. He’d set Erasmus to work on the origins of the Cashnar legend. If the man had found something, maybe he’d finally start piecing together this whole mess. He turned to call Ithara and Vanda, but they were already knee-deep in tinkering with NOVA and the Bots.

  Probably better to leave them at it for now.

  He shrugged and followed Erasmus out of the lab. The archivist walked beside him with his chin raised, each step measured like he was performing for an audience.

  What’s the bookworm got this time?

  “So, Erasmus. Any progress on the origin of those prophecies?”

  The man arched a brow. “Are you… certain you wish to discuss this in a corridor?”

  Derek glanced around. The corridor was empty, and the few scholars who met his eyes quickly looked away and hurried past. He shrugged. “Why? You find something hot?”

  “Hot, Cashnar? I… don’t believe I’m familiar with that terminology.”

  For some reason, Derek could never resist poking at him. Everyone kept insisting he should treat Erasmus with respect, but… yeah, not happening. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Not surprising. Hottest thing in your life is probably the chamomile tea you sip before bed.”

  Erasmus’s frown deepened.

  Derek rolled his eyes. “Come on, just tell me what you found.”

  The archivist gave a small bow. “As you wish. You know the origins of the Citadels?”

  Derek glanced around. “Nope. And I don’t see what that has to do with the research I gave you.”

  Erasmus’s mouth curved into a smug smile. “Allow me to explain.”

  Derek let out a long sigh. The man loved the sound of his own voice. Left unchecked, he’d lecture straight into the heat death of the universe. “Fine. But try to keep it short.”

  He nodded. “A long time ago, the very sites where today stand the mighty Citadels of Orbisar—centers of worship, of study, and—”

  “Erasmus.” Derek shot him a weary look.

  The archivist cleared his throat. “Yes, well. As I was saying… the Citadels were built over ancient temples. Sacred sites, revered long before the rise of Orbisar.”

  “Okay.” Derek snorted. “So they built one boring thing on top of an older boring thing. And?”

  “Well… it appears that within those temples, the image of the sacred armor of the Messiah of Steel manifested for the very first time.”

  Derek’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, manifested? Like hanging in the air? Or a vision?”

  Erasmus shook his head. “The ideograms described ancient paintings with moving images. Perhaps illusion magic. And this image appeared on every painting in every temple at once, as if by miracle, announcing to the world the form the Cashnar would one day take.”

  Derek rubbed his beard. “Paintings with moving images? Like… screens?”

  The archivist frowned. “Screens? And what would those be?”

  “Where I come from, that’s what we call paintings that show moving images. So you’re telling me the ancient temples had screens. And one day my armor popped up on them?”

  Erasmus nodded. “It’s a story no one speaks of anymore, but the oldest inscriptions still mention it. A voice also came from these… screens. Surely the voice of Orbisar himself.”

  Yeah, sure. Or maybe the Blue Fairy. “And what did this so-called divine voice say?”

  “It commanded that the image be faithfully reproduced in sculptures and depictions, so none could forget the Messiah’s appearance. That way, when he arrived among us, we would know him at once.”

  Derek dragged a hand through his hair. One single authoritarian broadcast—propped up by faith and zeal—had been enough to keep his image alive for millennia. But why? And how the hell had they known what NOVA would look like thousands of years before he even built it? “You said those screens were where the Citadel now stands.”

  Erasmus nodded.

  “So I can see one. There’s one of them here, right?”

  The archivist let out a weary sigh. “What are called Citadels today were originally fortresses, raised to guard and study those temples. Over centuries, new layers of construction piled atop the old, again and again, until you have the monumental structure surrounding us now.”

  Derek narrowed his eyes. “So the original temple—the one with the screen that first showed NOVA—is underground?”

  “Dozens of meters beneath the current Citadel.”

  His throat dried out. “Is there a way down, or do I need to grab a shovel?”

  Erasmus lifted a brow. “None value the history of our faith more than I, but attempting to reach the first stratum strikes me as… excessive.”

  “I’ve got my reasons. Just answer the question.”

  The archivist dipped into a small bow. “If that is your will. Yes, there is a way. But as I said, every layer of construction was designed to protect the original temple. The path is not meant to be… easily accessed.”

  “You mean obstacles.”

  He stroked his beard. “More accurately… traps. Mechanisms laid down to prevent the unworthy from profaning the sacred halls. Based on Orbisar’s magic, developed in later centuries.”

  Derek muttered a curse. “And do we at least have maps to pinpoint and disable those traps?”

  Erasmus shook his head. “I’m afraid not. If such maps ever existed, they’ve been lost. Many of the traps may no longer function. Still, there is no way to be certain.”

  “Do we at least know where the entrance is?”

  This time Erasmus nodded with a satisfied smile. “I have located a map showing the design of the first portion of the path. It will guide you only so far. Beyond that, you will have to find the way to the temples by yourself.”

  Derek scratched his head. The way Erasmus talked about those ‘temples,’ they sounded less like holy sites and more like terminals. Screens, interfaces, the works. Wardilai tech, no doubt. If he could break in and pull the data, maybe he’d finally get the answers he’d been chasing. Maybe even more.

  Not just how they’d known the look of his power armor centuries before its creation, but also the true nature of Orbisar’s spheres, and why they fell from the sky.

  Hell, maybe even the location of another Kolaar Node on this planet.

  He clapped his hands together, and Erasmus flinched at the sound.

  “Perfect,” Derek said. “Guess I’ll be needing that map, Erasmus. Looks like it’s time I went back to my old line of work.”