"In other words our acquired memories are different." Onin thumbed his huge nose leaving a mossy green stain. "But, of course, we may have been subjected to different training schedules before our—'birth'. Perhaps we had instructors with different backgrounds transmitting through the mentamit."
Jay snorted. "Individual instruction? No! Uniformity is the rule for all robots. Any deviation is avoided. A mentamit recording is more probable, teaching the simplest rules of behavior and obedience."
Onin's weapon spat its lethal needles in short steady bursts. Jay shifted so he could help his comrade stem the approaching rush of butrads. They came on, out of the grayness, an undisciplined mob, waving clubs and spears as they ran, their purple-rimmed mouths croaking insults.
The two expoders slashed at them. Twenty of the hideous brutes fell, writhing and crying out thickly in pain, before the attack fell apart and disintegrated.
"Last attack they'll make today," said Jay. He examined the meager supply of needles in his magazine and shook his head. "It's almost night and they stick close to their nests with darkness."
Onin looked up from checking his own ammunition.
"Almost gone," he said glumly.
"Jay," a voice called from below.
"What is it, Ina?"
"Water's coming into the ship. We're in a foot of water now."