I dropped the gun and the penlight and hefted a six-foot length of heavy steel pipe. To paraphrase Archimedes, give me a mighty enough lever and I’ll roll the earth. I put that theory to the test. The robot wheeled, clunky and slow, and I smashed it with all my muscle and all my weight. The reverberation numbed my wrists and elbows. I felt the shock in my gritted teeth. The robot faltered, listing to its side, jointed legs scrabbling for purchase. I walloped it again, aiming for the dent I’d made near its front end where ports and nodes nested, and, I fervently hoped, a brainbox. I brought that pipe down like fabled John Henry driving a railroad spike. This blow nearly tore my arms out of their sockets. It wasn’t lost on me that John Henry fought a steam engine and died. The robot swayed in caricature of a boxer who’s gotten stung. Adding to the nightmarish atmosphere of struggling in the poorly lit tunnel (the penlight lay under a couple of inches of water, emitting a pallid radiance), an unearthly grinding whir started somewhere in the machine’s innards. Had to be loud, because my ears rang from the gunshots. I would’ve gone for another power swing, but a metal arm interposed, pincers clamped the pipe, and we were locked in a tug-of-war. In a sickening exhibition of brute power, the pipe crimped and flattened under the robot’s clamps. I released, instinctively ducking as the other arm slashed my back and shoulders like an iron-corded bullwhip. I stumbled with the glancing blow, grabbed another length of steel from the pile, and circled counterclockwise, avoiding those threshing arms. My saving grace was the machine’s slow, ungainly pivoting radius, of which I took full advantage. A critical rule to defeating a bigger, stronger opponent is to either target his offensive capabilities, or cripple his mobility. I hammered the nearest leg at a knobby joint and was gratified to see metal bend, then buckle. Circling, hammering, circling. Once I’d severely damaged three of its legs, I stabbed the pipe under the robot and into the ground and lifted with that fulcrum. Budging that floundering, uneven weight proved a daunting task. Famous strongman Eddie Hall suffered a brain bleed after his world record dead lift. That was on my mind, you bet. Eddie Hall was no regular-issue human being. I kept lifting, straightening my knees. The robot swiped at me and missed. It toppled into the trench at the center of the passage and sank, trailing a rush of bubbles and foam. Its red and blue lights shimmered like reflective stones.

Advanced military hardware was more Lionel’s bag. As far as I knew, the damned thing was submersible, self-repairing, and would recover to initiate hot pursuit. A worse scenario by exponential degrees: other killbots could be en route. I’d need a hell of a lot more pipe. Fear helped me forget my aches and pains and incipient exhaustion. I scooped up the light, had several nervous moments until I located the revolver, and hauled ass for Shaft 41.