Targeting Pack -

“Pack, form on Wasp. Arrowhead. Low emissions.” Hornet-7, a flattened disc, peeled off to circle above, painting a bubble of electronic silence around them. Cicada-9, a bloated hexapod, scuttled along the floor, its cargo bay holding a spare power cell and a single, compact-shaped charge. Firefly-3, a stubby cylinder, clung to the ceiling like a metal limpet, its demo-tipped limbs ready to breach any door. Scarab-2 brought up the rear, a brutalist cube of armor and a 20mm cannon that could punch through a bank vault.

“Now,” Kael whispered.

“Copy, Nest,” Kael said, and the poetry in him died a little more. “Peaseblossom inbound.” targeting pack

Then he saw it. The floor. It was old ferrocrete, cracked and waterlogged. The Archivist’s console was bolted down, but the panel at his feet was a maintenance hatch, held by four rusted screws. “Pack, form on Wasp

“Scarab. Suppression. Non-lethal area.” Scarab-2’s 20mm cannon didn’t fire a shell. It fired a sonic projectile—a focused, concussive blast of air designed to incapacitate. The round hit the floor two meters from the Archivist. The shockwave lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the far wall. He slid down, unconscious but breathing. Cicada-9, a bloated hexapod, scuttled along the floor,

Kael shut his eyes. He felt the pack’s separate minds, their subroutines, their limitations. Hornet could blind. Firefly could stun, but the flash-bang was set for a full room, not a single target. It would knock the Archivist unconscious, maybe give him a concussion. It might also trigger the dead man’s switch if his vitals spiked wrong.