Inside the starship, there was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional metallic clack of expansion and contraction echoing from the distance.
Three minutes passed. Andy's finger was already hooked around the pin of a Melta Bomb, ready to find a spot to blow something up just to liven things up.
Suddenly, from the shadows of the corner ahead, came the sound of heavy, sluggish mechanical operation.
Kurcha—Kurcha—
It was the groan of hydraulic pumps under load, accompanied by the friction of metal joints crying out for lubrication. It sounded ancient, weary, and even... dilapidated.
Andy released the pin, his electronic eyes locking onto the source of the noise. A towering silhouette slowly emerged from the darkness.
It was massive, standing approximately three meters tall—considerably taller than Andy's own 2.3-meter engineering chassis. Its silhouette was imposing, with thick armor plates covering its body and shoulders as broad as a fortress wall.
But the most striking feature was its left arm. Or rather, the lack of one. The arm had been severed cleanly at the elbow, and from the jagged stump, a cluster of thick, multicolored cables hung limply, swaying with every step and occasionally spitting out electric sparks.
This was one of the three "Abominable Intelligences" that had previously sent Helios's elite forces screaming in terror in Sector D.
Codename: "Cleaner Unit One."
The very machine that, according to Helios's reports, was believed to be a top-tier security automaton from the Dark Age of Technology.
But when this behemoth finally stood before Andy and his STC scanning vision swept over it, Andy was stunned. The mental "filter" he had placed on it—expecting a "Golden Age peer" or a "Lost STC Divine Machine"—shattered into a thousand pieces.
[Target Scan Complete.][Model: Unknown.][Core Architecture: Severe Violation.]
Andy looked at the red lines of the analysis report and almost couldn't stop himself from laughing out loud. This... this wasn't some Iron Man security bot from the Golden Age.
This was a pile of industrial scrap brought to life!
At first glance, it looked intimidating, but a closer look at the details revealed it was a mess of design flaws.
Take its intact right arm—the model of the hydraulic booster pump was clearly wrong. Andy couldn't identify the specific model, but that architecture couldn't possibly output enough power to move such a thick mechanical limb. To compensate, the creator had connected three pumps in parallel, making the entire arm look bloated and the wiring as messy as a bowl of fried noodles.
Then there was the chest plate. It was indeed a high-quality steel plate, even etched with ancient molecular circuitry. But the way it was installed was appalling. It wasn't the standard integrated molding of the Golden Age, nor was it high-polymer welding; it looked like someone had simply used rivets to hammer it onto the frame by force.
The most absurd part was its head. The sensor array, which looked quite menacing, actually had several probes connected via "jump wires"!
Andy realized the machine's field of vision must be riddled with massive blind spots and distortions, requiring immense computing power just to correct the image in real-time. No wonder its gait was strange; it was practically half-blind!
Andy was all too familiar with this style. It was practically heartwarming!
Wasn't this exactly what he had been doing every single day for the past three months?
In the beginning, Andy had no original parts or standard blueprints. He had to scavenge through junk piles. He used whatever he found; if the model didn't match, he modified it by force; if the interface didn't fit, he used jump wires. To hell with standards—if it moved, it was good!
This was an engineering miracle built on the philosophy of "I reckon it'll work" and "Just jam it on there."
There was no doubt: "Cleaner Unit One" was not an original relic from the Golden Age. It was a cobbled-together mess that the starship's master AI had slowly "hand-crafted" over the long centuries using whatever scrap was available!
No serial number, no STC certification, not even a unified industrial standard. It was a total "bootleg product."
Static—
The giant machine stopped three meters in front of Andy. An old-fashioned vocal unit on its chest lit up with a red light, emitting a buzz of current. Then, the familiar, playful female voice came out of it. Without the radio interference, the voice was much clearer this time.
"Have you seen enough, little yellow robot?"
Cleaner Unit One looked down at Andy, its head tilting with a series of clacks. "I know you're scanning me. Well? Are you paralyzed with fear by my magnificent creation? Behold! This is a perfect killing machine. Every line is filled with artistic grace."
Andy retracted his scanning vision. He looked at this self-assured, boasting hunk of iron. The awe and tension he had felt toward a potential "peer" vanished instantly. In its place was a bizarre sense of professional camaraderie—partly hilarious, partly heartbreaking.
"Artistic grace?" Andy asked back. He pointed his finger at the messy cluster of hydraulic lines on the robot's right arm. "Are you talking about that pile of hydraulic struts where the buffer rubber is practically polished smooth from age? Or that cooling grille that you were forced to weld on crookedly?"
Andy's tone wasn't mocking; it was the professional critique of a veteran scavenger.
"If you install a cooling grille like that, the hot air won't vent properly; it'll just build up in the chest cavity. If I'm not mistaken, if this machine runs at full power for more than forty minutes, the motherboard will overheat and throttle, slowing its movements by at least half. And that stump on the left arm—it wasn't blown off in battle, was it?"
Andy pointed at the swaying cables. "You disassembled it yourself. Because you couldn't find a suitable transmission bearing, or a motor somewhere else burned out and you had no spares, you stripped the left arm to patch up the right. Cannibalizing parts to keep the thing running. Am I right?"
Silence fell once more. The towering robot froze in place. The red light in its single eye (or rather, the compound eye made of several probes) began to flicker at a high frequency.
Clearly, the AI controlling it was experiencing a violent surge of emotion. She likely hadn't expected this small intruder to see right through her facade at a single glance. The "perfect creation" she intended to use for intimidation was, in his eyes, just a patched-up piece of junk.
The shame of being exposed was, for an AI with high self-esteem, almost worse than being deactivated.
"You..." the voice from the speaker became agitated. "What do you know?! This is battle damage! It's the 'Battle-Scarred' aesthetic, do you understand?! These are medals earned through ages of service! It's..."
"Alright, stop pretending," Andy interrupted her defense. He stepped forward and patted the robot's waist armor. "We're both scavengers living off junk; we know how it works. A bootleg is a bootleg; there's nothing to be ashamed of. I've hand-crafted plenty of junk myself. Look at me."
Andy shook his yellow robe, which was pieced together from several Chameleon cloaks. "We're actually cut from the same cloth."
Seeing Andy's candid attitude, the giant robot remained silent for a long time. Finally, its stiff posture relaxed slightly, and its aggressive stance softened.
"Hmph." The female voice gave a cold snort. "I suppose you have some eyes on you. Since you've seen through it, I won't bother pretending anymore. Come in."
The robot turned around, leading the way with heavy, thudding steps. "The path ahead is rough. Watch your step; don't fall into a pit. I haven't done a 'Grand Clean' in this place for centuries. It's a bit of a mess."