The technicians scurried from the cavern floor. The all-clear sounded and the roof slid open and a ramp grew up from the floor.
His voice echoed through the cavern, mingling with the voices of the other warriors. Joyous, thankful voices—the horror had passed and they were alive again.
On the surface it was winter. The methane-frosted ground beneath the machines was like iron. Iron against steel feet rang in the heavy air. Wispy tendrils of steam rose from the great bodies. The respirators sucked and transformed ammonia and methane. The great feet left imprints in earth and stone.
Jord exulted in the freedom of the surface, in the long vistas of unwalled space, in the curve of a far away horizon. He exulted in his machine body, so human in its parts, so more than human in its size and capabilities. The column of the neck, the steel sinews; every muscle, every ligament, every nerve of the human body had its counterpart in the machine. What man could do, the machine did. What affected man, in proportion, affected the machine.
Even to pain, the machine was complete.
He withdrew his optics and sent his telescope rising ten feet above his head, searching the gray land for the other detachment. A dozen miles away he could see the dome of the ravished farm. The little specks were scurrying to complete their destruction before the dreaded warriors should appear. They had blocked the entrance of the shallow valley in which the farm lay with their artillery. Behind it the gunners would try to hold off the warriors and give the rest time to escape. Not that it mattered. The enemy cared little for his losses.
His telescope swiveled, found the scarp of an ancient bomb, ringed with what was probably fission produced obsidian, and rested on the bodies of the machines who had beaten his detachment to the scene and now came streaming out to join them.
The two detachments merged, hesitated as each warrior assumed his position and began the attack.
They would charge straight at the guns, so much a warrior cared for the marksmanship of former slaves—so much a warrior cared for the power of native shells.